


Leave Our Troubles In The Sand

by cinnamontoastcronch



Category: Avengers: Infinty War, Infinty War, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Absolutely Not Starker Ya Nasties, Anxiety Attacks, Ashes Scene in Avengers: Infinity War Part 1, Asthma, Awesome Natasha Romanov, Big Spoilers, Body Horror, Character Death Fix, Civil War Fix-It, Dad Steve Rogers, Delirium, Dissociation, Emetophobia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emphasis on Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Fever Dreams, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, I don’t want ppl triggering themselves by accident, Iron Dad, Kinda, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV Peter Parker, Panic Attacks, Parent Peter Quill, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Quill Feels, Peter Squared, Platonic Cuddling, Poor Peter Parker, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Precious Peter Parker, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Peter Quill, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Realistic Tony Stark, Resurrection, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Sharing Clothes, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Sleepiness, Sort Of, Space Flight, Spaceships, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Stony if you squint, Stream of Consciousness, Superfamily (Marvel), Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, and he gets it!!!, big brother peter quill, chapter 13 bois, comforting aunt may, dealing with death, dont read this if you hate vomit, guess what the reunited, he’s not mean tho I pinky promise, i love iron dad too but, if you want it it’s there, im sorry he just cries like all the time, im that kind of person lol, its not graphic but pls be careful, it’s not that bad tho I swear, kind of, little brother Peter Parker, may parker is a saint??, more like, naps, not a lot just being safe, ok maybe Tony’s a little mean in ch 5 :/, peter crying a lot???, peter misses his aunt, peters gonna need a lot of therapy I’m just sayin, shes just not great at feelings, space is kinda scary idk, tags to be added probably, teenagers in dangerous situations, theyll reunite soon I promise, this is tony stark being the person he is, tony calling peter “Kid” an unreasonable amount of times :/, we don’t play that here, we need to appreciate our marvel mom, yk how it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-05-03 04:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14560767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamontoastcronch/pseuds/cinnamontoastcronch
Summary: ***INFINTY WAR SPOILERS***Peter relishes the feeling of Tony’s arm around his shoulders.This is the new normal now, he supposes.—-some small, stream of consciousness comfort fics for if avengers 4 goes the way I want(note that these are all loosely connected one shots, and you can read them separately if you want!)CHINESE TRANSLATION: someone was kind enough to reach out to me and translate the first three chapters into Chinese for international readers!! here are the links!!Chapters One and Two http://shield084.lofter.com/post/1f9669ad_ee9d11f8Chapter Three http://shield084.lofter.com/Chapter Four http://shield084.lofter.com/post/1f9669ad_eea89e13Chapter Five http://shield084.lofter.com/post/1f9669ad_eebc286f





	1. But At Least The War Is Over

Peter drifts in a sheltered state of semi consciousness. He's not really awake. It's more like he's aware that he's asleep. He's comfortable. Happy.

His legs are tucked up close to his chest. He was a little cold in just his suit but someone put a blanket over him a few hours ago. There was a hand combing gently through his hair after. He thought it might be Steve. 

Peters sort of hugging himself too. Like a kid who lost his favorite teddy bear and can't sleep without it. Peter wouldn't mind a nice teddy bear right now.

His head is pillowed on Tony Stark's chest. _His head is pillowed on Tony Stark's chest._ Any other day he'd be panicking. Any other day it would be the best thing that had ever happened to him. But the feeling of his body disintegrating into ash in Tony's arms is too fresh. 

This is the new normal now, he supposes.

Star Lords ship rumbles quietly underneath him. Its nice. Like a box fan and a massage chair all in one. Part of Peter wishes the seats were a little more comfortable. But he guesses they weren't exactly meant for a grown man and a teenager trying to cling to each other and have an adrenaline crash at the same time. 

Peter relishes the feeling of Tonys arm around his shoulders. It's a reminder, not only that Mr. Stark is okay, but that Peter is _real_. That his bones aren't crumbling at a rate slow enough that he can feel the agony shoot through his entire skeleton. That he doesn't have to plead to some merciless god, or titan, or whatever the fuck is out there, for his life. That Tony can protect him this time.

Every now and then, he tugs Peter a little closer in his sleep. At least, Peter’s pretty sure he's asleep. He could be faking, but Peter could swear he heard light snoring a few times. 

Peter watches the shapes the stars and the ship lights makes through his eyelids. They're abstract and fuzzy and make him feel like he's safe. 

He thinks of May back home. And Ned. And MJ. He wonders if he'll tell them what happened to him. He wonders if they turned to dust too.

Peter hears Steve and Natasha's voices, low but somewhat close. They're talking about him. Him and Tony. “He really loves that kid, huh?” Nat says. He hears Steve laugh. Its sad. He listens to them as much as he can, but his exhausted hearing is only so good. He hears them say things like: “trauma”, “poor kid”, and “things will be different now”.

Peter sort of wants to cry.

He drifts a little longer, until the memories, fresh and ancient, coming flooding. He feels his organs turn to dust first; he wants to throw up but his stomachs not there anymore. He feels his ribcage snap under the weight of parking lot concrete. Part of him misses when Cap decked him with vibranium.

Peter starts to shake a little. It's all anxiety fueled, and it brings frustrated tears to his eyes. His breathing picks up. His heart hammers in his chest (which is _there_ , his hearts still there, and oh _god_ is this how Mr. Stark felt with an arc reactor?). He clenches his fists in his new suit, pinching his skin before he realizes it's not a tshirt. He cant help the little whimpers that stick in his throat.

Its a panic attack he's too exhausted to participate in.

Peters feels Tony stir slightly beside him. He hears Nat and Steve make worried little tsking sounds, and shuffling to get up and help him.

But Tony just tugs the kid towards him again. He drops his head close to Peters ear, and crosses his legs the other way. “You're alright, kid…” 

Some sort of dam breaks in Peter. The tears fall slowly, accompanied by little hiccups now and then, but nothing more. His eyes are still closed. So are Tonys.

Peter hears Steve and Nat sigh with relief as he snuggles into Tony's chest a little more. He thinks he hears muffled laughter. It's not as sad as it was before. 

Peter starts to drift again. He listens to Tony’s breathing. He watches the starlight behind his eyelids. 

He’s _safe._

They’re going home.


	2. And When The Sun Comes Up

“Over the bucket, kid.” Tony instructs gently, watching Peter heave out stringy stomach acid.

Peter’s still curled up by Tony's’ side. Someone has given him a sweatshirt to wear over his suit. He assumes it’s Star Lords, because the shoulders are too wide the sleeves are too long and the whole thing just makes him feel like a kid wearing his big brothers hand-me-down. But a very, very childish part of him doesn’t give a single shit, because it’s warm and soft, and smells like Froot Loops and space. 

He’s not even sure he really knows what space smells like, but it’s definitely in this sweatshirt.

But he doesn’t have the ability to enjoy that, or the fact that he’s _still in space right now_ because he can’t close his eyes for more than a few seconds without being terrified that his hands will turn grey and crumble to dust again. 

So his legs are pretzeled around a garbage bin (at least he thinks it’s a garbage bin, it doesn’t have a liner, and it could just as easily be a really deep popcorn bowl) and his pale, not at all grey hands, are white knuckling the edge while he pukes up what could have been the Egg McMuffin he had for breakfast before he decided to leap out of the fucking bus window.

But Peter decides it’s okay, because for every negative, there’s a positive. Yeah, he not home right now, but he’s in _space_. He’s throwing up in a garbage bin, but he’s wearing Star Lord's sugary smelling sweatshirt. He’s shaking with fear and exhaustion, but he’s whole, and Tony’s arm is around him.

So he decides it’s okay, even when he can for sure taste Egg McMuffin coming the wrong way up his throat.

“ _Fuck_ McDonalds…” Peter mumbles into the lonely basin. 

“Yeah, capitalism’s a bitch.” Says Tony Fucking Stark, and Peter laughs hysterically for a few seconds.

He doesn’t know when but he’s starts sobbing a little, and it’s hard to imagine how “sobbing” and “a little” go together, but he manages it. Fat tears slip uselessly down his face. His bottom lip wobbles stupidly. He keeps making audible shudders. And every few minutes he’s so _painfully_ aware that _Iron Man_ is cradling him to his side like he’s five years old, and it makes Peter think for a fleeting second that being a pile of ash might be a less harrowing option.

But, of course, that one stray thought of unbridled fear cloaked in 17 layers of humor sends a hiccup of anxiety through his chest, and he burps and spits into the trash bin while his ears ring from the overload. Tony takes a big slide closer to Peter, abandoning his usual quest for aloofness, and sweeps the kids sticky bangs away from his forehead. 

“Take it easy, kid. Just…” Peter hears Tony inhale deeply. He can feel about a thousand different meaningless words of comfort just about to spill out of Tony, but they don’t. Tony holds his breath and waits, until he finally just says: “We’re here.” 

And it’s enough. 

_We’re here._

_You’re whole and safe and alive. And I’m here to protect you._

_We’re here._

Peter closes his eyes and breathes. The air completely fills his lungs, and when he exhales, he doesn’t crumble.

He grabs Tony’s arm with one pale hand, half covered by a sweatshirt that smells like sugar cereal. 

It’s says: _I’m here too._

_I'm alive, I’m safe. And I’m here for you._

They breathe.


	3. We’ll Be Nothing But Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay can I just say the feedback from this fanfic is INCREDIBLE. y’all are rlly making my day, so here’s two new, (slightly more dialogue driven) chapters as a gesture of solidarity :)

Peter dreams of waking up on Titan.

The first thing he remembers is crying. The universe slowly knits each particle of him back together, and the next second he’s gasping and sobbing and shaking. The sun (or whatever stars Titan orbits) is too bright, and the ground is like sandpaper against his skin. He’s starting to understand where newborn babies are coming from. Being (re)born sucks.

Peters still lying on his back, staring up at the sky. Tears leak out of his eyes, and drip onto the sand below him. His whole body tremors. His head pounds. His insides don’t feel real yet. He wants his Aunt May.

Once Peter can feel his stomach again, it’s fighting against him. He rolls onto his side and pukes and coughs, but it burns like ash in his throat. He pushes himself up on his shaking arms and almost collapses back down when he sees _dust_ instead of vomit on the sandy planet floor. 

_He’s puking up fucking dust._ He spits and wipes his mouth, whimpering when he feels the grain of ash against his fingers. 

“ _What the fuck, what the fuck._ ” Peter mumbles, feeling so suddenly small that the sobs gets bigger and hiccupy. 

His stomach (or his lungs? He’s not even sure anymore, maybe his organs are still dust, maybe his guts are still being rebuilt inside his skin, and honestly what the _fuck_ ) rebels again, and the sickly feeling of dust and sand crawling up his throat causes him to gag. Peter has a distant memory of getting pool water up his nose and crying for his aunt. He’d give anything to be that Peter again.

He feels his breaths getting quicker and more desperate, and by some miracle he rises to his Bambi legs and stumbles away, arms wrapped protectively around himself. 

_Dead._ He was _dead three minutes ago._ Sobbing, screaming, a pile a dust in his mentors arms, and there’s nothing that anyone can ever say to him to reconcile—

“ _Kid?!_ ” 

Except that.

Peter struggles to make his eyes focus, but when he does Tony is there looking more shaken then Peter has ever seen him in his whole life.

Peter opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything. But his bottom lip starts to wobble and his eyes start leaking again, so he just lets out this strangled cry of pain, and Tony’s hugging him faster than he can process. 

“You’re okay, you’re okay…” Tony rambles, practically taking all the kids weight. Tony tries to make his brain say something else, but Peter here and whole and it’s all he can do not to bombard this traumatized kid with questions. “You’re okay…”

Peter buries his face in Tony’s shoulder, trying desperately not to think of the last time he was held this way. 

In the distance he can hear the relieved cries of the Guardians. He sees Doctor Strange sitting in silence, staring up at the sky, then back down at himself: a reassurance that he’s here.

Peter wishes he could be so calm.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, voice trembling. 

“Yeah.” It’s a statement. Tony’s here.

“I wanna go _home._ ” Peter feels more like a child than he ever has.

Tony lets out a long breath. He secures an arm around Peters shoulders, slowly walking him back to the ship. “We’re getting there, kid.”


	4. Just The Outlines Of Our Hands

Peter can’t stop staring at his hands. He catches himself doing it the whole way home; fisted in clothes, both his own or whoever’s babysitting him at the moment. Clutched around a mug of something he can’t remember the taste of. Maybe hot chocolate, maybe tea (maybe something alien, who is he to say the Guardians even drink tea?)

Peter feels like a ghost. Like he’s made of the steam rising from his mug, or the fuzzy warmth of the oversized clothes he’s wearing. 

He feels spacey and weird. He can feel his hands and feet, either to much or not enough, but never normally. He’s starting to wonder if this is just what space is: feeling insignificant and small, and like the zero gravity could sweep you away like… dust.

Peter readjusts the obnoxiously orange headphones on his ears. He’s not going to tell Star Lord that the tape stopped an hour ago. Because the headphones are soft and they keep out all the noises that his ears just can’t seem to deafen. He feels almost human. Less like a zombie. Less like a mutant.

He looks down at his hand again, tracing the smooth web designs across the suit with his eyes. He flexes his fingers and tries to feel himself in his body again. But it’s hard, because the hand he’s looking at belongs to Spider-Man, not Peter Parker. And Spider-Man's a different person. Spider-Man's stronger. Spider-Man didn’t crumble to dust.

Peter shakes out his hands, but it’s slow and it sort of hurts like when you nod too hard with a migraine. He watches them flick, stiff or loose wristed, and feels like he’s watching it through a camera lens. 

“What’s shakin’, kid?” He hears Tony’s voice from far away, ignores his pun, and just keeps flapping out his hands. 

“Hey, Pete? Let’s cool it with the hands, huh? You’re gonna spill your sippy cup.” Peter doesn’t react, rubbing his hands distantly on the legs of his suit.

“Are you even hearing me?” Tony reaches up to pluck the headphones off his head, but Peter recoils.

“ _No._ ” He says quickly, covering his ears. 

Tony raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright… take it easy.” He kneels down in front of Peter, grabbing his shaking hands. He looks up into the boys face, trying his best to ignore how _17 years old_ he looks right now. “You look like shit, kid.”

“So d’you.” Peter shoots back. His mouth feels funny. His words don’t feel like his own.

“I’m entitled to looking like shit, I’m 47.”

“Thought you were 87…” Peter mumbles into his sleeve.

“Cute.” Tony deadpans. “What goin’ on, huh? Quill put some magic mushrooms in your cocoa?”

Peter shakes his head, and it feels like it’s full of syrup. “Can’t put mushrooms in cocoa, they’re for soup…” _Why did his voice come out of his mouth that way?_

Tony stares at him for a long while. “Yeah, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing.”

Peter hums, dropping his chin to his chest, and clenching and unclenching his fists. Tony gently but swiftly takes the mug from Peters hands and sets it on the table. Still crouched in front of him, he takes the kids hands firmly in his own and rubs over one of his palms with a thumb.

He grips his hands a little tighter. “Look at me, kid.” Peter does. “What’s wrong?”

Peter just stares at Tony for a minute, trying to make his mouth do something. Every now and then speaking is just too exhausting. The process of thinking, and then getting the words past his mouth, and not having them come out weird takes too much time, so he just shuts down and doesn’t say a word. “My hands feel weird.” He makes his marble mouth say.

“Weird, how?” 

Peter inhales, frustrated at his inability to communicate. “They're… fuzzy.” 

Tony gives him a look, then mumbles to himself for a minute. “Wait. You're still feeling panicky after…” He clears his throat. “After Titan?”

Peter nods.

Tony stands, placing a hand on Peters shoulder. “Kid, I think you're dissociating.”

Peter blinks up at him. “Hmm?”

Tony sighs deeply, dropping down in his now designated spot beside Peter. “Its okay, you're safe. It's just your brain messing up it's signals.”

“My brains stupid.” Peter states blankly.

Tony laughs. “I think everyone’s brains are a little stupid right now, kid.”

It's a familiar sensation, when Tony pulls Peter close to him. A soft, falsey uninterested sounding: _c’mere._ Peter just wishes his dumb body would work like it was supposed to so he could feel the comforting warmth of his mentors arm.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter mumbles sleepily. “I don't feel so good.”

Tony stiffens for a moment. He brings a hand to Peters hair, and Peter could swear he felt it shaking just a little. Tony exhales shakily, mussing up the kids now ungelled, curly hair. Guess the universe forgot that little tidbit when it rebuilt Peter atom by atom. “I know, Pete. Just relax, you'll feel better soon.”

Peter sinks into the halfway embrace. 

“That sentence is now illegal for you, by the way. And no _Doctor Who_ references for, like… the rest of your life.”

“Kay…” Peter agrees, already half unconscious. 

The last thing Peter feels before drifting off is Tony holding his hand.

When he wakes up, he can feel again.


	5. It Takes One To Know One, Kid (I Think You’ve Got It Bad)

“Are things gonna be different now?” Peter asks. He's standing at the ship window with Tony. Space isn’t as exciting after the first few hours. There aren’t wonders every second. There’s a lot of dark. A lot of empty. 

Tony sighs. It’s not the usual Tony sigh of exasperation at Peters incessant stuttering and pop culture references. It’s just tired. “Things are always gonna be different, kid. You just have to decide whether or not you’re gonna let it bother you.”

Peter looks down at the floor. “I don’t like change.”

“Nobody does. It’s not always bad though. I mean, look at you: I wouldn’t exactly call prancing around Queens in a glorified leotard sticking to the status quo.”

Peter laughs wetly. “This is different, though.”

Tony takes a long pause. “I know.”

Peter starts wringing his hands. “I mean what am I supposed to do? What, I just go home pretend I wasn’t d—“ He stops and breathes. “I just wanna fix it.” _I just want you to fix it._

“Yeah.” Tony shakes his head. “I’m sorry, kid, I’m not good at this.”

Pete swipes at his eyes. “It’s okay, I understand, Mr. Stark.”

“ _Jesus_ , you don’t _have_ to understand.” Tony grips the window sill. “You can be pissed at me, kid—”

“I’m not—“

“I didn’t keep you safe—”

“It wasn’t your fault—“

“ _Fuck!_ ” Tony slams his hand on the sill. “ _Yes it was!_ ”

Peter stands stunned for a moment. Mr. Stark doesn’t yell, not at Peter. Not unless he fucked up.

“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I didn’t—“

“Stop, kid, just _stop._ ” Tony says, and it’s so much softer this time. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s not your fault either.” Peter says timidly.

Tony nods, like he’s trying it convince himself. “Yeah. Okay. It’s just that you’re not supposed have—“ Tony can’t say the words. That makes it real, and he won’t accept it. Not for Peter, not for himself. “I’m supposed to be the one who— _shit…_ ”

Peter turns a little back to the window, and tries to change the subject. He doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he’s a little afraid of the words too. “I can’t tell when it’s night or day anymore. I guess it doesn’t really matter out here, huh?”

Tony won’t back down, though. “Kid, if you need to talk about it, I’m here.”

Peter inhales, hugging himself again. It's a familiar gesture for him now. Finally he shakes his head. “I don’t know what I need to do.”

“That’s okay, too.”

They watch the stars a little longer. This is how it goes: stilted half confessions and almost breakdowns, masked by bad jokes and starlight.

“Does this go away?” Peter asks.

“No.” Tony says sadly. “It doesn’t. Not really.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

Peter shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Maybe.” Peter pauses. “Does it get _easier?_ ”

Tony looks down at him, watching his teary eyes for a moment. “Yeah.”

Peter nods excessively, trying to ignore the sudden bubble of emotion in his chest. But it’s no use. Exhausted tears pour down his face for what feels like the thousandth time. His face is still puffy and hot from the last breakdown. He just wants this to stop.

“Peter…” And, _oh it must be serious_ , because Tony doesn’t just call him Peter. He hears the pity in Tony’s voice. Or sympathy. He’s not sure what it is, and he’s not sure if he finds it insulting or comforting. 

Peter sucks in an ugly hiccup, wishing he would stop sounding so much like a kid when he cried. “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry—_ “ 

“Shh, stop, stop, hey…” Tony cups a hand on Peters cheek, the other on his shoulder. Peter glares at the floor, fighting not to let loose more sobs. Tony just pulls the kid into his chest, and Peter feels so so small.

He doesn’t realize it all the time. Spider-Man feels big. Even Peter Parker does too, sometimes (when he klutzes into kids in the hallway, too big, he’s too big). But this: being held by an adult, held by the man he’s watched on his television screen since he was 8 years old. This is when he feels small. His bones are small, and his hands, and his head rests perfectly in the space between Mr. Starks neck and shoulder.

Tony holds him close. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

Peter let’s the words sink into his bones. He tries to believe it.

Peter starts to feel his muscles give, and he absently wonders how long he’s been tense with anxiety. He’s struggling to keep his bleary eyes open; blurred with tears. His throat hurts from crying, and his stomach sloshes uncomfortably. He feels so suddenly like 13 year old Peter: all stuffy nose and aching stomach and kisses from May on his sweaty forehead. He longs for it. He wants to sleep, but he knows the exhaustion won’t cease when he wakes up. It’s soul deep. 

“I…” Peter tries to choose his words carefully. “I really don’t feel great, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rubs his back, squeezing him a little tighter. “Thin ice, Parker. _Thin ice._ “

Peter laughs a little. He can feel a chuckle vibrate through Tony’s chest.

“C’mon, you should, uh—“ Tony starts to lead him back to his designated blanket nest. “Sleep. Sleep is good.”

Peter nods, even though he’s tired of sleeping. “I just don’t wanna feel this way anymore.” Peter can’t stop himself from saying it, as Tony lowers both of them onto their seats.

“I know.” Tony wishes he had something else to say. “But look…” He tucks a blanket around Peters shoulders, one handed and not looking him in the eye. “I’m here, okay? Whatever happens, whatever you need… I’m not leaving.”

Peter feels his stupid eyes fill with stupid tears again. He’s not sure when he tells his brain to do it, but all at once Tony Stark yet again has an armful of sick, weepy teenager. 

Tony doesn’t even flinch. He just holds him.

Peter decides he likes feeling small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowowowowowowowow I’m still So Overwhelmed by the positive reaction to this fic (guess y’all are all rabid comfort fans like me lmao)
> 
> right now, I feel like I’m entering the danger zone of exhausting iron dad fics (but you tell me, idk, I’ll write them until I die). But, I do have a few other ideas, including Peter comforted by Cap, May, MJ, Ned, Quill, maybe even Happy or Bucky or Nat idk. But I’m not sure about whether or not I’m gonna wrap this fic and keep it as a “the long way home” kind of story and keep it between Peter and Tony on the guardians ship, or extend it to be an all encompassing Post IW fic. Either way, I’ll probably post some of my other comfort fics, but it’s just a question of where they’re going to go, and if I’m going to edit them to be a part of this story.
> 
> So yeah! If you got through all of that, tell me what you’d like to see!!!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the chapter :)
> 
> ~Cereal
> 
> (also, the only reason I’m not responding to comments anymore is bc I like keeping things unclogged, I swear all of your comments mean the world to me)


	6. That If You Talk Enough Sense Then You’ll Lose Your Mind

Peter doesn’t scream when he has nightmares. He never did. Not when he was six and it finally hit him that his parents weren’t coming back. Not when he was eight and aliens came crashing into Queens. Not when he was bit by the spider and deliriously sick for days. Not even when all he could hear at night were gunshots.

He cries, sure. But the terror is never there. Some twisted part of him wishes it was. Wishes that what he went through was horrible enough to warrant night terrors because there’s no other way to describe how it _feels._ He wants to look sick. To look like there's something wrong so that he could feel justified in accepting help. Instead he’s just this sleepy puddle of a kid who can’t stop crying. Which means it’s his fault.

The nightmares are something, at least.

But May never comes running to his bedside. There’s never a cure all hug. A single weepy confession, and then poof! He’s fixed! It's always weird and shaky and never what he wants it to be. Sometimes he sits up and start saying things that don’t make sense, until May puts a hand on his head and tells him he’s still dreaming, or he has a fever. If he’s lucky, she walks by his room while it's happening, and he keeps the memory of fleeting comfort in his mind for bad days. 

But Peter’s rarely lucky. Instead he usually sits in silence, trying to get a grip on himself, searching for some kind of reality in the wee hours of the morning. He doesn’t want to let his mind wander, because he knows he’ll just get himself all worked up. But he can’t help just thinking and thinking as the tears dry on his face and his fists wrinkle the sheets that won’t keep out the cold anymore.

As Peter cries quietly against the polyester of Tony’s undersuit, he knows this will be one of the bad nights.

Tony’s awake, he thinks. Maybe half asleep, because his arm is locked securely around Peter’s chest, and Peter’s sure this would never happen unless Tony was asleep or drunk. At least, he used to be sure. Maybe he doesn’t know what he thinks he does anymore. Maybe things are different.

Peter feels stupid when he turns and snuggles into Tony's arm, and even stupider when he brings an arm up to keep it against his chest. It’s just that it feels safe. And he’s having a hard time keeping that up lately.

His breath hitches when Tony tightens his grip. “Pete, you okay?” 

Peter just buries his face further into Tony’s sleeve.

“Hey…” Peter feels Tony’s hand come to rest in his hair. It’s always unsure, and sometimes Peter just wants to scream: _yes, please, I need comfort._ “What’s goin’ on?”

Peter just shakes his head.

“Nightmare, again?”

Peter shrugs, and Tony’s hand ruffles his hair a little. He closes his eyes, basking in the rare affection. Although it’s not as rare now. 

Tony shuffles beside Peter. “Here. Four down, help me.”

Peter rubs his eyes, turning towards Tony. “Wh-what…?”

“Four down. Crossword.” Peter looks down into Tony’s hands and _oh shit yeah he is holding a crossword puzzle._

Peter blinks. “What the fuck?”

“Hey! Watch it, you little punk.” Tony lightly elbows him. “You’re gonna offend Steve’s sensibilities.”

“Actually, I think he curses more than you, Mr. Stark.”

Tony scoffs. “Yeah, right. That goody two shoes little army boy?”

“He’s kind of a war criminal.” Peter says simply.

Tony clears his throat. “Yeah… I’m not sure any of that really matters anymore, kid.”

Peter tenses. “Right. Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Tony gently squeezes him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Peter tries to dig the tear induced headache out of his eyes. “So… what’s with the crossword puzzle?”

Tony sighs dramatically. “Just do it, kid. Humor an old man, okay?”

Peter shifts around until he’s looking down at the bleak little travel book Tony’s awkwardly trying to hold open with one hand. There’s a dull, pink crayon between his fingers, and Peter feels compelled to tell him that it won’t show up very well on the wrinkly yellowed pages.

“Uhm… goaltending.” Peter says, pointing lazily.

“How the fuck did you know that?” Tony laughs.

“Hey!” Peter tries his best to cross his arms indignantly.

“Seriously, I thought you were like the geekiest of geeks, even at your science school.”

Peter makes a fake pout. “Alright, fine: it was on an episode of _Futurama._ ”

“That’s what I thought.”

Peter cracks a smile for what feels like the first time in years. 

It goes like this for a few hours: Tony reads a clue, Peter finds the answer somewhere in his brain. 

_“Beheaded.” “That’s dark, what are they teaching you at that school?” “History, Mr. Stark.”_

Tony reads a clue, they fudge it the best they can. 

_“I don’t think that’s a word Mr. Stark.” “Who’s to say, kid?”_

They laugh, and forget. 

_“What the fuck is this category anyway?”_

Until Peter gets sleepy, and dumb, and fucks it up.

“What’s a four letter acronym for what’s wrong with me?” He regrets it the instant he says it.

Tony sighs tiredly. He doesn’t want to say it, Peter knows that. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

Tony starts writing in the margins. The crayon is so dull, neither of them can make out their answers for the last 5 puzzles. This is clear though: _PTSD._

Peter stares at it for a long time. It’s scary written out. It’s real and terrifying, and something he has to _deal with._ Peter doesn’t scream he has nightmares, but he wants to right now. He wants this to all be a dream. He’s never hated pink crayon more in his life. 

He looks up at Tony, who's still securing him to his side.

“Okay?” Tony says. “Look at me.”

Peter just blinks up at him.

“You’re real.” _You’re real, your feelings are real._

And Peter wants to cry. Because somehow, even though he doesn’t know what he’s doing, everything Tony says is just _right._ It’s short and simple, and it makes things feel small. Manageable. 

Peter nods, tears clogging his throat. Tony tugs him into his side.

Manageable.

They can work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapters on its way soon! thanks to doofusface for betaing and to truewolf for giving me the idea of the crossword puzzle ;D


	7. This Is A Place Where I Don’t Feel Alone

Tony knows something’s wrong the minute he walks out of Star Lord's dingy little kitchenette. He’d tried to find some decent food for the kid, but the only thing that didn’t look like some kind of science experiment was a nearly crushed box of stale goldfish. It would have to do.

But Peter’s curled up in his blanket nest (except half the blankets are on the floor, and the rest aren’t covering him at all), tugging anxiously at his gloves. He’s got a glazed look in his eyes, staring at an empty table across the room. He looks like he might cry.

Tony kneels beside him. “Pete, you alright?”

Peter looks at Tony like he’s just noticed he’s there. “I don’t wanna wear this anymore,” he says, and it comes out like he’s been holding his breath for too long.

Tony squints. “Your suit...?”

Peter nods desperately.

“Okay, okay, settle down.” He puts a firm had on Peters shoulder. The kids shivering uncontrollably. “Are you cold, kid? You kinda fucked up your little baby bird nest here, I can fix it.”

Peter just shakes his head, frustrated. “No, _no, I have to get this off!_ ” he sucks in a gasping breath.

“Jesus, alright…” Tony presses a hand to Peters chest, and the suit loosens around his body. Peter relaxes a little, rubbing his hands on his thighs again in a nervous gesture. Maybe it was too constricting? Maybe the kid had some kind of severe unchecked claustrophobia he was unaware of? “Kid— Pete, just… settle down, okay? You’re alright, you’re safe. What’s up, huh? Iron Spider legs not your style? Coulda just told me, kid; don’t need to have a panic attack over it.”

Peter shakes and shakes his head, tears pooling in his eyes. “I just need to wear normal clothes, Mr. Stark,” he says quietly.

“Why?”

“Because…” He looks everywhere but in Tony’s eyes. “Because it’s the last thing I was wearing when—“

 _Oh._ And yeah, that makes a lot of fucked up sense. Tony remembers the feeling: after New York, the Iron Man suit didn’t have quite the shiny new ring to it. Putting it on felt like encasing himself in the trauma of flying a missile into fucking space. Of his last call to Pepper that never went through. Of being scared back alive by the fucking Hulk. He can imagine why Peter’s might still make him feel a little anxious.

Tony squeezes Peter’s shoulder. “Do you have any other clothes?”

Peter shakes his head miserably. “N-no, I’m sorry…”

“Shh, just… I’ll sort it out, just sit tight.” Tony rises to his creaking knees, calling as softly as he can to the next room: “Hey, Quill? Got any fun size clothes for the kid here?”

In the end, Peter winds up wearing an ugly combination of three of the Guardians closets: Gamora's old neon yellow prison garb (which is roomy in the hips and so long he has to tack it up three times not to trip), a pair of thick fuzzy socks which could honestly be from anyone, and a fucking 2XL _Footloose_ T-shirt from Star Lord which just _has_ to be a jab at him for speaking ill of Kevin Bacon. Tony also tucks his weird camo jacket around Peters shoulders. It’s not soft, and it’s too big (he doesn’t tack the sleeves, but if he did it would be about 5 times), and it rustles like his winter coat from 3rd grade. 

Peter feels loved.

His head finds a familiar spot on Tony’s shoulder. “What if this doesn’t go away?”

“Kid, don't worry about that right now, okay?”

“No, but what if— _what if I can’t be Spider-Man anymore?_ ”

Tony stays silent for a few seconds long. “Then we’ll deal with it. Okay? Peter Parker goes back to being a normal high school student who doesn’t skip classes and endanger his life, and helps Iron Man build gadgets in his spare time.”

Peter wipes away a stray tear.

“Pete, look at me.” 

He does. 

“Spider-Man isn’t all you’re worth. You’re more than that, and you were before the spider bite. If you gotta take a break, that’s what you gotta do. It’s not the end of the world, I promise.”

Peter nods a little. “I don’t wanna give up Spider-Man.”

“You don’t have to. But you’re sick right now—“ 

Peter tries to shake his head. 

“—no you _are._ Just cause it’s not the flu doesn’t mean you don’t have to take care of yourself.”

Peter sniffs, actively wiping tears from both his eyes now. 

Tony holds a hand to his chest in mock pain. “Ugh. You’re giving me heartburn with all these emotions, kid.”

“Sorry.”

“Jesus, stop _apologizing._ Just take that word out of your vocabulary, okay?”

Peter chuckles. “Okay.”

“You feeling a little better?” Tony asks, settling down next to him.

“Yeah.”

Peter doesn’t sleep. He listens to Tony talk about him and Pepper, and Captain America and Doctor Banner. Every now and then he shoves a handful of stale goldfish into Peters hands. 

_“Gotta eat, kid.”_

Peter buries his face in the sleeve of Tony’s jacket. It smells like aftershave and engine grease and hair gel. It’s ugly, and adorned with neon orange stripes, and overall feels like a cheap under armor hoodie. 

It’s the best thing he’s ever worn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up will most likely shift to a new character!
> 
> comments are always appreciated! thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	8. When You Were Young You Used To Dream About Fire

It’s pretty unceremonious when Peter wakes up sick. He drifts out of a thick haze, head absolutely pounding, stomach aching (and honestly it’s a welcome break from the curdling anxiety he’s been feeling for days), and sweaty with fever. He’s really, really starting to hate these stupid, fuzzy socks. 

He likes sleeping here, though. It’s always dimly lit, and the rumble of motion reminds him of the 4AM car ride Aunt May and Uncle Ben used to take him on to get down to the Outer Banks. When life was all fresh donuts and rainy beaches. There’s a song playing from another room, like the radio in the old station wagon, but he can’t make out the words. 

The strangest thing about waking up though, is that he’s alone. 

As much as he hates to admit it, Peter’s gotten used to having Tony by his side. 

Peter sneezes suddenly and violently, and about 8 more times than he wants to. He curls protectively around his stomach, and brings a hand up to brace his throbbing head from behind. He lets out a groan, wishing he had a better pillow than a balled up jacket.

“Are you okay?” 

Peter jumps a little, turning up his gaze to see Black Widow standing in full suit in the doorway. Her hair is a platinum blonde now, which won’t stop throwing him off. He misses when he was 12; Black Widow had red hair, Captain America was a hero to all, and Iron Man was his celebrity idol. Peter snaps out of his haze and scrambles up into a sitting position, trying to ignore the dizzying sensation in his head.

“Oh, uhm, I-I’m fine, Miss, uh— uhm—“

“Nat.” She corrects him. 

“O—okay.” Peter’s always been a little scared of her because she never changes her facial expression. He’s never been good at reading people (he’s always nervous and thinks he’s fucking something up), and her constant monotone doesn’t make it easy.

“You look sick.” Nat says simply, and why the _hell_ she never breaks eye contact Peter will never understand.

Peter shakes his head. He’s not going to cry about having the sniffles to _Black Widow_. “I’m alright.” 

Nat swiftly chucks a bottle of pills at him. “Here.”

Peter catches it, but just blinks at her.

“I heard you crying in your sleep.”

Peter chokes. “O—oh.” _Jesus, he thought Tony had awkward bedside manner._ “I-I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine.”

Peter fumbles for his bottled water. It’s warm and tastes like metal, but he washes down four of the pills from the bottle, hoping it’ll be enough to keep up with his metabolism. “Thank you.”

“How much sleep have you been getting?”

“Uhm… I don’t know… it’s kinda hard to keep track of time he here.” Peter stutters out.

Nat nods. “It’s okay to be scared, you know.”

“I’m not scared it’s… it’s _over._ ” Peter says, and it sounds like he’s only just managing to convince himself.

“It doesn’t mean you can’t still be scared.”

Peter’s silent. He looks at the ground for a little while, tugging nervously on his sleeve. 

Nat slides down on the ground beside his seat.

“Were you a secret agent?” Peter asks, feeling like a 5 year old.

Natasha actually laughs at that. Nice to know the only thing to crack Black Widow is Peter’s rampant immaturity. “Yeah.”

“But now… you were with Captain Rogers, right? In Wakanda?”

“Yes.”

Peter feels himself teetering on the edge of what’s okay to talk about. But he’s sick and sleepy, so he plows on ahead. “Why were Captain Rogers and Mr. Stark fighting?”

“Need to know basis.” She says with finality. “Tony should have told you, though. You shouldn’t have even _been_ there, I can’t _believe_ he brought a 14 year old…”

Peter squirms uncomfortably. He really doesn’t like being reminded of when he was 14.

“What are you doing here?” He asks bluntly.

“Looking after Stark's kid.” 

“I’m not—“

“Do you _really_ wanna go there right now?” She asks, a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “He’s been cuddling you like a teddy bear for the past 48 hours. You’re Stark's kid.”

Peter feels his cheeks burn. “I don’t need looking after, I’m fine.”

Nat brings the back of her hand up to Peters forehead. “You’re burning up, your eyes are glassy, and you have nightmares every time you fall asleep. _I’m looking after you_.”

Peter tries to argue, but his mouth won’t make any words because fucking _Black Widow is babysitting him._

“Lie down. Tony will be back soon, it’s just my shift.”

Peter shuffles until he’s lying back down, but _not_ because he’s giving in, it’s because his eyes are getting gluey and he can’t really breathe through his nose in this position. It is absolutely not because he finds Natasha’s calm, hardened presence weirdly comforting.

He turns to face away from Natasha, swaddling himself in blankets. He hears the soft sounds of 80s pop playing from Star Lord's room, and tries to let it rock him to sleep. He tries so hard not to think of Titan.

“I know what you’re feeling.” Nat says, in a low, soft voice. “But It doesn’t last. Things are going to be better one day, I promise. You won’t have nightmares forever.”

Peter feels little tears slide over his nose and drip past his ears. He’s beyond grateful for the blankets cocooning his head now. A little shudder passes through his spine, and he gives a sniffs quietly against the thick comforter.

Later, he’ll chalk it up to sickness and exhaustion, but he swears he can feel fingertips gently rubbing his back as he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> switching it up!!! I hope y’all like this attempt at Natasha (I’m not one to sacrifice characterization for comfort), next might be Cap, Bucky, or Quill!
> 
> want to cry along with me? here’s my post Infinty War playlist (including all the songs I used to write this fic!!!) https://open.spotify.com/user/29ycp435qislkbuh44f4yxuhx/playlist/4x6DcWqW47RLq6yNpI3tWv?si=SyNRGVDHT8KWTzdDc7fkFg 
> 
> comments are always appreciated!!! thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	9. Somebody Catch My Breath

Peters thing (a space cold? Alien virus? Side effect of resurrection? He doesn’t know) drags on another day. He sleeps restlessly; shaky, sweaty, stretched across three seats, and utterly miserable. It’s not a dangerously high fever, but it’s enough to make him feel like he’s burning on the inside. Even his eyes are hot. 

Peter curls an arm around his stomach, and groans quietly. He feels a wet cough force its way out of his lungs, turning his face into the bunched up windbreaker under his head. His chest feels tight and won’t bring in enough air, so he gasps slowly while pawing at his shirt. 

He suffers in relative silence for a while, trying not to cry as he distantly plays ‘asthma attack or panic attack’. He can’t help but flash on his ribs cracking under the weight of concrete and the feeling of water pouring down his face. Struggling to breathe as he’s dragged up into to space, and the feeling of air thin around him. 

He sucks in a heaving breath, unsure whether it’s from the coughing or the upset, but it clogs up his throat even more.

Peter freezes when big calloused hands sweep his plastered hair off his forehead. 

“Shh… it’s okay, you’re alright…” The voice is low and soft, deeper than Mr. Starks and… calmer. “Just breathe, nice and slow…”

Peter tries to copy the voices breathing, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. His fingers start to tingle with numbness, but he feels a gentle hand settled firmly on his chest. Eventually his breathing evens out, and he opens his eyes.

“There you go, just like that.” Says Captain America, who’s looking down at him like he’s a skittish little puppy.

“Oh my god.” Peter blurts, almost sending himself into another fit. “I mean— I’m sorry Mr. Rogers— or Captain Rogers, sir! Sorry…”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, son.” Cap gives him a smile, somehow looking soft and warm under the scruffy beard. “Steve is fine.”

Peter nods rapidly. _Captain America just asked me to call him Steve._

Steve frowns at him. “Do you get asthma attacks a lot?”

“Uhm, I uh— I used to, but not since… not anymore.” Peter stutters, not really wanting to go into detail about his little superhero origin story.

“Me too.” Steve says. “I had asthma, before uhm…” Steve looks down at himself, laughing a little.

“Really?” Peter says, eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Steve gets a faraway look in his eyes for just a moment. “Do you have an inhaler?”

Peter shakes his head. “I, uh… I left it at home.” _I haven’t used it in three years…_

Steve nods. “Just try and take slow, deep breaths, okay?”

Peter nods. 

There’s a comfortable silence that passes over them. Peter breathes, and Steve rubs his shoulder comfortingly. 

“You’re from Queens, right?” Steve asks.

“Yessir, uh— Steve.” Peter corrects himself.

“New York’s a lot different than when I was a kid.”

Peter looks up at him with bright eyes (from fever or wonder, he’s not entirely sure). “Could you, uhm— could you tell me about it…?”

Steve’s face lights up, and that’s how it starts: Peter Parker tucked under every blanket in the ship, while Captain America whispers war stories to him like they’re fairytales. There’s something about Steve that makes Peter feels safe. Maybe it’s the timbre of his voice. Maybe it’s because he’s been looking up to him since he was 12 years old. Maybe it’s because Steve reminds him of Uncle Ben.

“Hey, hey!” A familiar voice comes floating in from the doorway. “You corrupting my kid over there, Rogers?”

Peter freezes. He immediately senses the tension between Steve and Mr. Stark. He knows how they left things.

But to Peters surprise, Steve actually _laughs._ Laughs like Germany never happened. His eyes get that little twinkle in them again, watching Tony stride over to Peter’s bedside. 

Tony kneels by Peter’s head. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Peter croaks out.

“Cap takin’ care of you?” 

Peter nods.

“Not gonna poison your young mind with anti establishment ideals while I’m gone?”

Peter smirks. So does Steve.

Tony casts a glance to Steve. They share eye contact for a fleeting moment. There’s emotion: heavy, and unfiltered, and absolutely brimming over. But there’s a second, just one second. It’s an understanding. A truce.

Tony ruffles Peter’s sweaty hair. Peter, in a moment of childishness, reaches up a hand and weakly fists it in Tony’s sleeve.

Tony lowers his voice to a whisper. “Deep breaths, kiddo. We’ve got you.”

Peter squeezes Tony’s sleeve for a moment, then lets go.

Tony stands slowly. He sniffs and straightens himself out, trying to make up for the display of tenderness. “Alright, grandpa, back to your war stories, or whatever. Try not to make the kid a hippie?”

“I’ll do my best.” Steve laughs.

Peter settles back down on his pillow, listening to Steve recount when he made Bucky ride the cyclone at Coney Island. 

When he sleeps, he dreams of Uncle Ben. For the first time since he was 14, it isn’t sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you guys like this chapter! (threw in a little iron dad for ya there) It’s unbetaed so my bad if there’s some grammar mistakes.
> 
> next up I’ll try and do Quill since everyone’s asking for it! I also have a May chapter which I like a lot, but I’m still trying to edit it to fit this story, and it takes place back on earth so I’ll probably do a landing chapter before that one.
> 
> suggestions are always welcome! (I’m still so delightfully overwhelmed with the reception to this fic, wow. I rlly didn’t think I’d still be writing it at this point)
> 
> want to cry along with me? here’s my post Infinty War playlist (including all the songs I used to write this fic!!!) https://open.spotify.com/user/29ycp435qislkbuh44f4yxuhx/playlist/4x6DcWqW47RLq6yNpI3tWv?si=SyNRGVDHT8KWTzdDc7fkFg
> 
> comments are always appreciated!!! thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	10. Setting Fire To Our Insides For Fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for self harm in this chapter (it’s not graphic, but please be careful)

Peter doesn’t feel better when he wakes up. His fever rages on for another few hours (he’s starting to wonder just how long this trip is), and he keeps jerking to semi consciousness in a sweat. He has vague memories of Tony by his bedside, stroking his hair and whispering reassurances to him.

“Shh…” Tony drapes a cool washcloth over the kids forehead. “You’re okay, Pete…”

Peter sniffles, shivering under a mound of blankets. “Too hot…”

Tony pushes his hair back, swiftly wiping a tear from his cheek. “I’m trying, kid.”

Peter nods and cries and shakes. 

His quiet hysteria builds and builds until it’s too much for Tony to bear. He gently takes the kids face in his hands, trying to get Peter’s bleary eyes to focus on him.

“Too much… it’s too hot… I don’t wanna burn, Mr. Stark, not again…” 

Tony tenses. “Just relax, kiddo… it’s gonna be alright, but you gotta settle down, okay?”

Peter focuses on his breaths, trying hard not to sound like he’s gasping for air. 

“I don't know what's happening, I don't know what's happening…” Peter whimpers, and the words are all too familiar.

“You're sick, kid. It's just a bad fever, you're delirious.” Tony says, but his voice shakes. “Doc already checked you out, you remember?”

Peter shakes his head. No, he doesn’t remember. He can’t remember anything, because his body’s on fire, and his brain feels like soup, and everything but Tony’s hand feels like sandpaper against his skin.

The last thing he’ll remember is Tony holding him in his lap, trying to coax his hyper stimulated body to sleep. But Peter wakes up alone.

Morning (or the end of Peter’s nap) comes, and Peter is still tired down to his bones. His limbs feel like they’re melting into the seat below, and he tries so hard not to imagine his hands crumbling. 

He hates that they feel numb again. He hates that there’s no easy fix to this.

It starts with the plastic edge of the armrest on the seat. Peter rubs his palm against it, almost flinching back at the sudden sharp pain from the unsanded corner. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it all the time. When he stares out the windows, or listens to the soft conversations through the walls. 

Something in him knows it’s wrong and that he shouldn’t be doing it, but those fleeting worries don’t stop him. Because it doesn’t go past his palms, and he doesn’t bleed so it can’t be enough. It can’t be a problem yet.

That’s how Peter deals with things: convinces himself that it could be worse, and carries on with borderline issues that stew in his stomach until something happens and he just boils over.

It’s just that he wants to feel something. His chest feels numb, and his brain feels like TV static, and the scratches on his palms give him a welcome sting when he squeezes shampoo into them. It enough to remember he’s alive. To remember that he’s standing in a shower, or huddled on a spaceship, and not lost in fire or crumbling away to ash.

“Hi, Mr. Stark.” Peter says, and he doesn’t look up.

“Lookin’ a little zoned out there, kid.” He waves a playful hand in front of Peter’s eyes. “You with me?”

“Uh huh.” Peter tries to blink away the fog. He digs a thumb into his scratched up palm.

“Pete, you okay?”

“Uh—“ Peter pauses. His brain won’t make words that will make him seem okay. He’s okay somewhere in his head, but it’s far away and he doesn’t know how to reach himself. “Yeah, my hands just— hand cramps.” 

“Oh.” Tony says, and somehow Peter’s managed to sound convincing. “Alright. You need anything? Scooby Snack? Apple juice? I don’t know what kids eat.”

“Mr. Stark, I’m seventeen.”

Tony scoffs. “Being eighteen is not gonna make you an adult, Spider-Boy.”

Peter puts a lot of effort into looking fake annoyed. Tony laughs, and Peter tries to but it takes so much out of him that he can’t get out more than a soft chuckle.

“So, Scooby Snack?” 

Peter smiles. “Sure, Mr. Stark.” He doesn’t feel himself say it.

Peter hears Tony leave, but the click of his shoes against the metal flooring sound like they’re underwater. He rubs his palm harder against the armrest.

Peter focuses his entire body on the minuscule pain in his hand. He has to force himself to breathe, to blink, to feel his heartbeat. It’s not a panic attack, it’s that he’s too slow, and he’s forgotten how to be a person. He’s so locked away in his own head that he can’t remember what being Peter is anymore. He doesn’t remember himself, or why he’s here, or why his spidey sense is sending deep shudders down his spine even though he’s _safe._

Peter squeezes his eyes shut; one less thing to concentrate on. He hears white noise buzz in his head, and somehow it’s the loudest thing he’s ever experienced. He feels his chest heaving, and involuntary frustrated cries escaping his throat. But he focuses on the pain, because it’s _something._

He doesn’t think he deserves it, he’s not sure. Peter carries guilt for things, but he’s been hurt so much, and he just doesn’t know what he deserves. _Breathe, breathe._ Was being beaten within an inch of his life by the Vulture enough to make up for not saving Uncle Ben? He lets the unfinished plastic dig into his palm. Is it his fault that Thanos snapped his fingers? Peter feels blood on his hands. Should he have been faster? 

_Did he deserve to die?_

Tony grabs Peters wrist, and the world stops. “Kid. _No._ ”

Peter feels everything again, and it’s too much. His brain is screaming at him: _danger, pain, fear._ He wants to yank himself from Tony’s grip but he can’t. He’s paralyzed, overstimulated, and one second away from a complete and utter meltdown.

But this is how he deals with things: put a lid on it, and don’t look at it until it boils over. He’d be fine if people would just stop lighting fires beneath him.

 _Fire._ Peter tries to ignore the raging fever in his blood. Mind over matter, everything’s mind over matter, he just has to _stop being dramatic._

There’s too much fire in his life: the crash when his parents died, the fire in his heart when he watched his uncle bleed out, the volcanic venom in his veins after the spider bite, the vulture tossing him into flames, _his body disintegrating into ash like no human should ever feel—_

Peter lets his hair fall over his face as he stares a hole into the floor. “ _I’m sorry._ ” He rasps out.

Tony grasps the back of Peter’s neck, forcing the kid to look him in the eye. His voice is firm, but his eyes are filled with terror. “This is _not_ how we deal with things. You understand me?”

Peter gasps wetly. “Yessir.”

Tony closes his eyes. This position is all too familiar: Peter curled up in his makeshift bed, crying, while Tony squats in front of him, trying to calm him down. 

“I’m gonna get something for your hand.” Tony says blankly, standing and walking to the cabinet. 

Peter looks down at his hand and _oh shit_ , because he pressed too hard and a thin line of blood marks his palm. He didn’t mean for it to go this far. It was just supposed to be a scratch, he didn’t want to bleed. 

“ _I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, I promise, I didn’t…_ “ Peter mumbles to himself.

Tony takes Peter’s wrist again. “Pete, hey, it’s just a scratch, settle down.”

Peter shakes his head. “No I wasn’t— I-I didn’t— _I wasn’t supposed to bleed._ ”

Tony just looks at him.

“I… I just needed something to feel, Mr. Stark.”

“ _I know_.” He says. “I know why, kid. But I’m not letting you hurt yourself, I’m responsible for you.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Peter stutters.

Tony softens his voice, wrapping Peter’s hand in gauze. “Don’t be sorry. Just _stop._ ”

Peter nods his head, afraid of what he’ll say if he opens his mouth again.

Tony ties off the gauze. “Are you in pain?”

 _Yes,_ Peter wants to say. Tony means his hand. “No.”

“Are you lying?”

 _Yes._ Peter likes the way it feels and he hates it. “It’s not that bad.”

Tony shakes four pills into Peter’s hand. “Pain _is_ bad, Peter. Don’t rely on it.”

“Yessir.” Peter dry swallows past the lump in his throat. He feels like he’s four is about to be sent to his room by Uncle Ben. He feels tears fall down his feverish cheeks, but his face remains passive. He doesn’t know what to feel anymore. 

Tony cups his cheek. “Kid…” 

Peter sniffs. He doesn’t apologize. 

“I’m not mad at you.” Tony says with sincerity. 

“Okay.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

He doesn’t. But he stutters out a broken confession anyway. “It was so _horrible_ it w-was like feeling nothing and everything all at once and it _hurt_ , Mr. Stark, it hurt so bad, but I just— I had to _feel something_ , I had to, and you shouldn’t have to know and I’m _sorry_ —“

Peter hits the floor on his knees, a blanket still hung loosely around his shoulders. Tony holds Peter against his chest, whispering soft words into his hair. 

“ _Shh…. it’s okay, Pete. It’s okay, I’m not mad. Everything’s gonna be okay, kid, I promise._ ”

Peter cries like he never has in his life. He can’t decide if it’s relief or terror pouring out of his body, but it leaves him feeling exhausted and empty, like a used tube of toothpaste. 

Tony pulls back a little, pushing back Peter’s bangs and feeling his forehead. “Still running a little toasty there, buddy.”

Peter wipes away the tears with his sleeve. “Sorry…”

Tony smiles. “I’m never gonna get you to stop apologizing huh?”

Peter smiles too. “Guess not.”

Tony looks at Peter. “We okay?”

Peter considers it. He's not, and he won't be, but at this instant it might be a little better than it was. He nods. “I think so.”

This is how it ends: Tony and Peter sit on the ground together for another hour or so. Tony tells him how he made his first suit. Peter tells Tony how he learned to stick to walls. They both try to forget. 

Tamp it down. Put a lid on it. If no one sets a fire, you can't boil over. Peter forgets not to set the fire himself sometimes. 

Tony grabs Peter’s hand and squeezes it. “It’s gonna be better soon. But you can’t be the one making it worse.”

Peter grips Tony’s hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the ground. “Okay.”

Tony pulls the kid into his side, and clears the emotion from his throat. “Good.”

It’ll boil over again. He’ll have to open the lid and deal with it at some point. Peter might forget not to light his own fire. But Tony will put it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwwwwow okay I’ve been sitting on this chapter for a long long time, so I’ve finally decided to bite the bullet and post it (also why this one is waaaay longer than my previous chapters). I’ve also been _exhausted_ from wizard world philly (but it was so fun, I dressed up in Peter’s homemade suit and my lifespan increased by like 20 years lol). I rewrote the ending abt 7 time before settling on what I have. I also combined like 5 different WIPs to make this chapter so??? I rlly hope it reads well. I read it a few times, but I didn’t have a beta reader this time, so it is what it is :/
> 
> anyway, here’s where I am on future chapters: a lot of y’all seem to want a Quill chapter, which I have a snippet of, and will probably work into a full chapter at some point. I’m also considering doing a landing chapter and continuing the story as Peter dealing with the after effects on earth. I have a May chapter which is basically done (needs some reworking), I just need a good time to post it. If I continue it on Earth, probably more Iron Dad, possibly Ned and MJ, idk. That’s as far as I’ve thought this out tbh, but if you read smth that you’d like to see let me know! 
> 
> want to cry along with me? here’s my post Infinty War playlist (including all the songs I used to write this fic!!!) https://open.spotify.com/user/29ycp435qislkbuh44f4yxuhx/playlist/4x6DcWqW47RLq6yNpI3tWv?si=SyNRGVDHT8KWTzdDc7fkFg
> 
> comments are always appreciated!!! thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	11. When You’re Weary, Feeling Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT TO ADD THIS BEFORE POSTING but this chapter is supposed to take place sometime between chapters 1 & 2 (or 2 & 3), Sorry for the confusion!!!!!

Peter wishes he had met Quill properly under better circumstances. 

Tony does his best to stay with Peter after hurrying him onto the ship, but he has things to tend to, and he doesn’t want to wake the kid up. So after about ten minutes, he leaves Peter swaddled in blankets, and almost asleep, and tries to pretend like it isn’t killing him.

Peter tries to pretend that too. He’ll never ask for Mr. Stark to stay with him. Not even after… what happened to him. He can’t say it yet. He can’t even think it. 

Peter tries to shake the feeling of overstimulation, but it hasn’t left his body since he could feel every grain of sand digging into his skin back on Titan. He feels so suddenly fourteen again; unable to control his newly heightened senses, and feeling like he’s one wrong move away from a complete meltdown. Peter’s always been a sensitive kid, and being bit by a radioactive spider did not help matters. 

But he got things under control. He learned to tamp down the enhanced hearing, sight, _emotions_. Those were the hardest. He managed to grasp most of it, but the _intensity_ he started feeling in everything was almost to much to bear. Sometimes it still is.

Peter is starkly reminded of this fact, as he lays on his side, trying to get a hold of his now super anxiety. Trying to come to terms with his _own death._

It always starts like this: Peter gets too much time to think to himself. His emotions are too intense, and it makes him physically ill. His stomach gets twisted into knots and his heart aches, and his eyes throb from the light and everything is just _so loud._

“Whoa…” There’s a voice above Peter. It’s loud and jarring and Peter jumps at it. “You okay, squirt?”

Peter clamps his hands over his ears, trying desperately to block out any noise possible. 

“Hey…” The voice gets closer, and Peter can’t help but curl in on himself. “Can you open your eyes?”

Peter groans, but manages to drag up his eyelids despite the harsh fluorescent lighting. Kneeling in front of him is Star Lord, looking reasonably concerned. 

Peter feels embarrassment creep up on his face. “ _Sorry._ ” He whispers, barely making a sound. 

Star Lord shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.” He says, sincerely, lowering his volume significantly. “I get it. Sensory overload, right?”

Peter screws up his face a little. _Star Lord knows what he’s feeling?_ He nods. “Uh… y-yeah…” 

Star Lord futzes with the headphones around his neck. “Here, kid.” He says, pulling the neon orange noise cancelers off, and reaching out toward Peter. He gently coaxes Peter’s hands away from his ears, before slipping the headphones down over them.

Peter knows they’re shitty Walkman headphones, that were probably made in the early 80s, but he visibly relaxes at the relief it provides. He can still hear, but everything feels like it’s at normal volume now.

Peter’s still squinting a bit, trying to find his voice.

“Oh! Here, sorry.” Star Lord reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pair of sunglasses and placing them on Peter’s face. It’s immediately obvious that they don’t fit, but it’s sort of endearing the way they keep slipping down his nose.

“Thank you…” Peter breathes again, for what feels like the first time since getting back on the ship. 

“No problem, kid.” Star Lord says, sitting back on his heels. “Got a name?”

“Uhm. Peter. My name’s Peter.” He stumbles out, still reeling from the overload.

“Hey! Me too!” Star Lord situates himself on the floor more comfortably, legs crossed. “Yikes, I guess that’s gonna get a little confusing. You just call me Quill, okay?”

“Okay.” Peter smiles, pushing the sunglasses back up on his nose.

Quill taps his fingers, looking like he doesn’t know what to do. He grabs the Walkman. “Want some tunes?”

Peter nods. “Sure.”

Quill quirks a smile, clicking a tape in. The music starts softly. Peter recognizes the tune within a few bars: it’s one of Mays favorites, and it strikes a heavy pang if longing in Peter’s heart. Thoughts of his aunt had been cloudy until now. He’s struck by how much he misses her.

Quill waves a hand near Peter’s face. “You, uh… want some cocoa? Always sort of helps me after, uh...” Quill sort of trails off, but Peter knows what he means.

He blinks a little, then starts to wring his hands nervously. “Uh, I mean, uhm— if you don’t mind, that’d be… that’d be really nice…” 

“Yeah, no problem, Little Pete.” Quill smiles, before wandering off in the direction of the kitchen.

 _Little Pete._ Peter doesn’t know why, but he feels warmth bloom in his chest at the nickname. It’s the first good thing he’s felt since Titan. 

Peter slumps back down in his little nest of blankets, turning the volume up a little on Quills tape. He won’t stop wishing for his aunt, or Tony. But the sunglasses slipping down his face, and the soft folk music in his ear is enough to make him feel a little less lonely. A little more grounded.

Quill will come back, with a sweet smelling sweatshirt that is somehow dryer warm, and a steaming mug of cocoa. He’ll talk with Peter about Earth, and give him another tape to listen to. Peter will feel loved, but miss home more and more. 

Eventually Tony will come back and sit with him. He’ll pull Peter back against his shoulder, tell him to get more rest, and Peter will try. He will play the tape six and a half times before relenting it back to Quill. 

He’ll try desperately not to miss his aunt.

He’ll fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyy Ya Bois back. Sorry for the sad ending, but I stg another chapters coming in like 3 minutes, don’t freak.
> 
> comments are always appreciated! thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	12. And Now It's Time To Leave (And Turn To Dust)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand now back to your regularly scheduled, present time iron dad ✌️

It takes Peter a while to sweat out his fever. He lays, swaddled in several cotton blankets, with bleary eyes and loose limbs, and realizes for the first time since Titan that he’s calm.

Tony is sitting with him, scrolling around on his phone with one hand, and soothing a lock of Peter’s bangs with another. Peter wonders if Tony is aware of what he’s doing, but he doesn’t care. He’s content. Safe.

Peter soaks up the warmth and affection for as long as he can, until Tony rubs his back lightly, and calls out to him.

“Hey, Pete? Buddy, you with me?”

“Hmm…” 

“C’mon kiddo, nap times over.”

Peter raises himself up on shaky arms. His cheek is red from leaning on Tony’s pant leg, and his hair is a mess. “Why…?” He whines.

“Cause we're home.”

Peter perks up at that. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes, blinking at Tony. “Home?”

“Yeah, Earths pretty close now. You should start packing up.”

 _Packing up._ Tony somehow finds a way of making a return to Earth sound like a trip to a grandparents house. 

Peter sits himself all the way up, folding his legs beneath him. He takes stock of himself: Froot Loops sweatshirt, _Footloose_ T-shirt, prison pants, fuzzy socks, bandaged hand, windbreaker pillow. He inhales deeply, feeling the oxygen stretch all the way out to his fingertips. He can feel his hands now. He closes his eyes and basks in the feeling of being alive.

“Kid, you alright?” Tony asks carefully.

Peter opens his eyes, feeling a small smile tug at his mouth. He nods. “I’m okay, Mr. Stark. I, uh… I wanna wear my suit. When we land, I want… I wanna be wearing it.” _I want to look like I won._

Tony nods. “Okay… are you sure? You don’t have to.” 

“I’m sure.” Peter says firmly. 

“Alright,” Tony stands and digs out the neatly folded fabric, handing it to Peter with the slightest smile. “Here.”

Peter curls his fingers tightly in the slippery material. This is how he’ll arrive. Like a hero. Like he won.

He still keeps the bandage on his hand, and the windbreaker over his suit. It’s a different kind of armor. One that his suit will never provide.

The ship enters the atmosphere, and Peter sees earth light for the first time in days. His bed is abandoned, a pile of discarded blankets and receding pain. Already a memory. Already collecting dust.

He stands by the window. His legs are shaky, his muscles tired, and his hair damp with sweat. But he stands under his own power. Because he won. 

Peter watches the clouds pass by. He remembers feeling floaty and empty and scattered like them. He doesn’t miss it.

Tony puts an arm around Peter’s shoulders, pulling him into his side a little. “How you doing, kid?”

Peter looks up at Tony for a moment, eyes wide and scared. He turns back to the door ahead, nodding. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah.” Tony says. He looks down at Peter. “You _are._ ”

Peter nods again. He’s okay. Mr. Stark is okay. 

He can feel his hands now. Gravity starts to weigh him down again. He is grounded.

The door to the ship opens with a hiss, slowly descending to the grassy plains of Wakanda. Peter doesn’t know whether or not to hope May is there. If he needs more time to collect himself. More time to heal.

Peter clenches his fists by his side. He’s going to walk out like a hero, despite feeling like a scared kid. The sunlight spills over his face, warming him instantly. 

So maybe he didn’t win. It wasn't grand, it wasn’t heroic. It was awful, and PTSD inducing, and something he will spend forever trying to forget. But he’s going to walk out with his head up. With his fists clenched, and his suit on. With Tony by his side, and his mind just a little bit at ease.

He won’t let Thanos win a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that’s all for now!!! sorry this is a little light on comfort, but I really wanted to move forward off the ship, and continue relationship with other characters. Anyway, finals are next week for me, so this’ll tide y’all over until I’m off school on the 22nd, then I’ll probably write a lot more!!!!
> 
> comments are always appreciated! (srsly, every comment Makes My Day) thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	13. When It All Feels So Big (Till It All Feels So Small)

Reuniting with May was a blur. Peter remembers tears, shaking hands and jelly legs, and being held like he was a little baby animal with bones like balsa wood. He tried not to cling to the guilt threatening to eat him up, but May looked _terrible_. Her eyes were puffy and raw in a way that only comes from days of crying. He remembered it from Uncle Ben. He felt the tear stains on his own face.

But May was focused entirely on her baby; ushering Peter away from the chaotic, tearful reunions everyone else was having, and into the car. Peter was grateful for the reprieve, but he felt a sharp sense of loss as he walked away from his shipmates.

He caught a glance with Mr. Stark, who just gave him a gentle nod. And that was it. Pretty anti climatic. Peter would be lying if he said he didn’t feel his heart sink just a little.

Change was happening, and happening to fast for Peter’s liking. _You just have to decide whether or not you’re gonna let it bother you._

Mr. Starks words now echo in Peter’s head, as he lays curled on the bathroom floor in the wee hours of the morning. _Wish it was that easy_ … he thinks bitterly, head hung over the toilet bowl.

Sometimes Peter just feels sad. He knows what it is. Grief. Something. He won’t say the word. Not even to himself, because then it’s sort of real. Not even after Tony wrote it in pink crayon.

But it’s a lot sometimes. It’s just _everything_ : Spider-Man, school, _Titan_. It all comes crashing down around him. He tries to fix one problem, and the rest tumble away like a poorly constructed Jenga tower. His heart feels too heavy for his chest. It sinks like lead and feels like it’s going to drop out through his stomach. 

Peter brings a hand up to his eyes. He’s not crying but his face is burning hot. Or his fingers are cold, he’s not sure. He feels like a ghost. Like his body is floating above the trees and lake he sees out the window on long car rides. His stomachs in his throat and his hearts in his stomach and his lungs are squeezing out too much air and not taking enough in. 

Peter feels tears shower down onto his shaking hands. His lunch crawls agonizingly up his throat and he waits for the bile to drip from his mouth. He makes an embarrassing burping sounds when he opens his mouth, before the sour remains of his sandwich come rushing back out his mouth in a sickening slosh. Peter cries out, tired and shaky and utterly distraught.

He wants his aunt to come home. He wants his uncle. He wants his parents. He wants everything, or something, to be okay again. He wants to be four years old with nothing to worry about and no mutant DNA crawling through his blood like a disease. He doesn’t want to weight of depression and anxiety and dissociation and— _no_. He still won’t say it. 

But he wants to feel whole again. 

Peter vomits and vomits, upsetting his stomach further and further with his uncontrollable sobs, until he hears the door of the apartment click open and May’s voice call out to him. And suddenly he wants to sink through the floor. She can’t see him like this. He tries desperately to clamp his mouth shut against the onslaught of sadness and pain. His sobs become muffled whimpers into his arm. His teeth chatter with misery and he hears the muted drip of his tears into the toilet bowl below his head.

“Peter? Are you in your room?”

Peter panics, hearing his aunt coming closer. He desperately tries to come up with a lie. He’s could pretend to be ill. He could tell a half lie and say he misses uncle Ben. He co—

May knocks on the bathroom door. “Honey, you okay in there?”

Peter sobs quietly. _What the fuck is he supposed to say to that?_ He calls out to his aunt, not feeling his voice leave his mouth. 

May opens the door and lets out a soft ‘oh…’ before kneeling down beside her nephew. 

Peter can’t decide whether to panic to be relieved so his body reaches and uncomfortable stasis where his stomach feels like it’s in another panic attack and his brain just floats further away.

May brushes sweaty hair back from his forehead, and he tilts his face up to her. “Oh baby, what happened?”

Peters face crumples momentarily. _What didn’t happen?_ “I threw up.” He states simply, and feels like a child.

May makes a sounds of sympathy and pulls Peter gently into her side. “It’s okay, Peter…” She kisses his hair and Peter feels himself stifle a sob. 

Peter feels empty and exhausted and just lets himself be comforted. May brushes two hands, one after the other over his forehead, gently tilting his face up to look into his glassy eyes. “Oh, you’re feverish…” 

Peter clenches his jaw to keep it from wobbling, but can’t stop the tears slipping down his face quicker and quicker. He twists out of her grasp as more bile forces its way up his esophagus. It burns his throat horribly as it splashes into the toilet. 

May holds him against her side, whispering gentle encouragements into his ear. Like he's done something to deserve that.

“M’sorry, May… I’m okay…” Peter mumbles with a raw throat, while May shushes him. “It’s just… it’s _so much_ sometimes, I—“ Peter feels himself choke out. He doesn't mean to. He doesn't want to.

May nods. “I know sweetie.” She lies. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know anything about this. What are you supposed to say when your child died, scared and far from home? “I know it is. But you're safe, okay? Everything's gonna be okay, you can let go now.”

Peter sighs shakily, trying to stop the whimpering cries from escaping his lax, overworked body. His stomachs aching from constant muscle spasms and his skin is burning and raw. 

May doesn't mind though. May never minds. She smiles gently, and rubs a hand up and down his back until he's breathing slowly again. “What d'ya think, huh? Can we get back to bed?”

 _We_. Peter nods, and smiles to himself. May pulls him back to rest against her shoulder. She presses worried lips to his forehead again, and he looks at the floor, feeling embarrassed. “I'm gonna call you out of school for tomorrow, okay?”

Peter straightens a little and shakes his head. “No, aunt May, please I _have t--_ ” 

“Shhh… you're sick, baby. You can take a day off, it's alright.”

Peter feels himself tear up irrationally.

May sighs. “Peter, you can't go to school with a fever, you know the rule. And who knows how long you'll be throwing up for, you might not get enough sleep.” She says, smoothing his curly bangs back from his forehead, slowly, until its all out of his pale face. She quirks a sad smile “I think I'm gonna have to lay down the law here, kiddo.”

Peter hangs his head a little dramatically. “Okay, aunt May…”

May smiles. “There we go. Okay, bedtime for you, mister. You wanna sleep in my room tonight? Nice big bed, TV, and you won't have to worry about not being able to get to the bathroom in time.”

Peter nods gratefully, and May hoists him up by his shoulders, half carrying her spindly nephew to her oversized bedroom. Peter can’t help but long for when he was little, and nightmares went away once he was sleeping between his aunt and uncle.

Peter counts the steps it takes to get from one room to the next, listening for the soft little puffs his sock feet make against the carpet. He loses count around 6, and just tries to take in the smell of home through his stuffy nose. He wants to feels safe without the bittersweet aftertaste the apartments hallways leave in his mouth. Everything good reminds him of something sad, and he can’t take it.

Peter concentrates on getting a grip on his dizziness. He knows part of the tears is the fever, but he can’t help but agonize over which came first: is the fever making him over emotional, or did he make himself sick with grief?

“Okay, Petey,” May snaps Peter back to reality, and he realizes he’s sitting on the oversized mattress, with May gently telling him to lie down.

It takes a little while, but Peter is eventually bundled up under aunt May's comforters, and given a flat ginger ale to drink with some saltine crackers. His hair is stuck up at unruly angles, his cheeks are flushed with fever, and his torso is all but swallowed by a worn, dark hoodie with a stain on the sleeve. Overall, he feels more like he's seven than seventeen. 

May sits beside him, checking his fever and coaxing him to drink more while Star Wars plays idly in the background. 

Peter closes his eyes and takes in the senses of home. There’s a bitter feeling in his chest, just for a minute, and he fights the tears pricking in his eyes. 

May reaches for him, pulling him close. “I’m here, baby.” She says simply, and Peter can’t stop the tears from slipping out. 

It doesn’t feel like before, though. Not like a tightening ratchet in his chest, threatening to snap and explode at any moment. It feels like letting go. Something in his heart slip back into place. He feels a little more whole, and he lets it be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hgggggosh ok so I’ve been keeping this baby on ice for a good long time. I wrote this well before infinity war, and tried to adjust it accordingly to new circumstances. But, I honestly don’t know how well it flows, so I’m a little nervous, and that’s why I’ve waited so long on posting it. 
> 
> I’ll probably do more May chapters in the future (bc this fandom rlly doesn’t give May the recognition and attention she deserves???), but I do have vague plans/drafts for some Ned and MJ chapters, which I think will be interesting since it’ll be two teenagers trying to grapple with the tough stuff instead of a teenager and an adult. 
> 
> Anyway I really hope you lik this chapter!! It’s p comfort heavy imo, bc I’m always a slut for that lol.
> 
> (Still in school atm, but only one more stressful final left so!!! Cross your fingers for me!!! I’m all As and Bs so far!!!)
> 
> comments are always appreciated! (srsly, every comment Makes My Day) thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	14. Can't We Be Seventeen? (That's All I Want To Do)

The first time Peter sleeps at Michelle Jones’ house, he keeps shoving his hands in his pockets because he doesn’t know what to do with them. Her parents are nice, and Peter’s a little shocked because if he’s honest part of him always believed that she was raised by wolves or something. Her sister is nice too, but she’s loud and makes jokes about alcohol any chance she gets. She’s the polar opposite MJ, but they seem to like each other well enough. 

Peter trails awkwardly behind her the entire time, feeling so nervous he has to physically stop himself from gripping the back of her jacket. Her parents offer him just about everything in their kitchen, and he smiles and politely declines until MJ butts in and declares that she’ll make them both ramen and take it up to her room. 

Peter lingers in the tiny, clean little kitchenette. He spins slowly on the bar stools, remembering how much he wished his house had one. 

There’s something about MJ's house: he honestly hasn’t been here that much (he still has to ask her if the bathroom is, in fact, on the left), but it feels like home, somehow. 

MJ stirs the soup lazily, completely in her own world.

“You can have one of those, my mom won’t mind.”

Peter sits up. “Huh?”

“The cookies, dork. I can see you staring at them, just take one.” She laughs.

“Oh!” Peter awkwardly digs his hand into the jar before pulling out a crumbly cookie and taking a bite. “Thanks.”

He absolutely will not tell her that he was staring at her and not the cookie jar. 

MJ cooks an egg for herself, and dunks it in the already overfilled mug. She grabs a set of chopsticks for herself, and a fork for Peter (since she knows he just stabs food when he gets frustrated), and leads him up to her bedroom.

MJs bedroom is modest: her bed takes up half the space, she has a dinky little closet, a desk with a computer, a few drawers and shelves, and one window. It’s clear she hasn’t redone anything since 6th grade. She still has a KPop poster on her wall, her bed posts are stacked up with silly hats (there’s a few beanies on top, but Peter can still clearly see the panda hat poking out underneath), and there’s still the tiny handprints of MJ and Gwen in the corner, from when they painted the walls together. 

Peter can’t help but feel like he’s intruding on MJ’s past, but she doesn’t give him long to think about it before she’s shoving a mug of soup into his hands.

They eat in relative silence, but neither mind. Peter’s an anxious person, and it’s rare that he finds someone he can sit with that doesn't make him feel like he always has to fill the silence.

It starts storming around 6. The sky darkens, and Peter’s head starts to feel fuzzy like it always does when it rains. (It feels strangely similar to when he starts to dissociate, but he won’t deal with that right now.)

Peter and MJ both feel tired at a stupidly early time, almost dozing off several times during their _Harry Potter_ marathon. MJ makes an old man joke through a yawn, and Peter doesn’t even have the energy to point out the obvious irony.

Peter sleeps on the floor, of course, because MJ’s bed is big enough for one person only. But Peter doesn’t mind. He likes being close to the ground lately.

He drifts off to the sound of rain and MJ’s snoring, and feels content.

—-

Peter doesn’t wake up screaming, but he _does_ wake up crying softly, and he honestly thinks it might be worse. 

MJ’s not that sheltered. She’s heard people scream in terror before. But even though she would’ve been shaken to hear it coming out of Peter’s mouth from her dark bedroom floor, the muffled sobs are so deeply upsetting, she can’t help but wish for something else.

Even worse, Peter can’t get a grip on his surroundings right away. Ever since Uncle Ben, Peter’s slept with a night light (he wasn’t about to ask MJ to turn one on for him), and the sudden darkness confuses him so badly that he scrambles back until his head bumps against the wall. He whimpers involuntarily, and pulls his knees up to his chest.

“Peter…?” MJ is sitting up in her bed, staring down at Peter, and clutching her comforter with white knuckles.

Peter breathes in slowly, trying to fill up his lungs as much as he can. His brain is scrambled with about 50 different anxiety techniques he learned online, the scrambled remnants of a dream, and half the flash cards for his physics final on Thursday. He hiccups quietly, flitting glances at MJ, but never meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, I just— I can’t stop crying, I’m sorry. I’m okay, I just can’t stop, I don’t— I don’t know why, I’m sorry.” Peter wipes his cheeks messily with the back of his hand, sniffling and staring straight ahead.

There’s a creak of springs, and Peter watches MJ climb off her bed from the corner of his eye. She doesn’t pull his hands away from his face and cup his cheek like Tony. She doesn’t sweep him into a hug and kiss his hair like May. She slides down beside him, hugging her knees too. 

“Sorry,” Peter rasps out between stifled sobs. “Sorry, it’ll stop in— in a minute, I just need to… sorry…” 

“Stop. It’s okay.” MJ whispers. Her words are stilted, and just a little off. It’s clear she doesn’t know what to do, and it makes Peter feel immediate guilt. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the strangest bit of comfort too.

Peter heaves over a few ugly cries, pressing his forehead into his knees with bruising force. He pants a bit, trying to reign in his breathing. “I’m fine, you can go back to bed, I’m fine.” He says, all in a single exhale.

MJ reaches a hand to his head, brushing through his short little locks. Peter freezes, just for a moment, then relaxes, so she keeps going. She untangles every little knot, and twirls her fingers around the tiny curls. Peter starts to feel small tugs on his hair.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks, lifting his head a little.

“Shh, braiding your hair.” MJ says, tipping his head back down. 

“Huh?” Peter mumbles into his knees. 

“Braiding your hair.” She says again, with no further explanation.

“Oh.” Peter says. “Isn’t it too short?”

“No.”

“‘Kay…” Peter sinks into the feeling, too tired to question it. He’s never had his hair braided before, but the soft little tugs, and the pastel cotton bands make him feel weirdly at ease. 

“Done.” She says, still playing with the baby soft hair at the nape of his neck.

Peter lifts his head, ghosting his hands over the precarious little tufts sticking out of his head. He smiles slightly. “Thanks.”

MJ giggles under her breath. “No problem, dork.”

Peter sighs deeply, looking back at his abandoned bed. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to deal with this.” MJ admits softly.

Peter looks shocked. MJ is usually one to brush feelings off and go for a method of distraction. “It’s not your fault, you shouldn’t have to know.” Peter mumbles, and it just feels like the wrong thing to say.

“I just feel like I’m always watching bad things happening to other people, you know? And I shouldn’t internalize it, because it’s not happening to me, but… I just can’t help it. I don’t like seeing people I love hurt. I feel like I’m not doing enough.” MJ stumbles over her words, struggling to speak truthfully. Peter can feel the barely contained anger. It’s the same kind he hears when she argues in government class. She's angry at herself. At the world.

“You’re enough…” Peter whispers. 

MJ looks up, and it’s the first time they’ve looked each other in the eye since Peter started crying. Her eyes are shining with tears, and Peter’s are red and raw. 

Peter swallows. “I mean, you being here. With me, it’s— it’s enough…”

“Yeah?”

Peter nods. He moves toward her a little, holding his arms out just slightly in a quiet plea for a hug. MJ scoots closer, and embraces him. Peter feels the tension in his chest loosen, and he settle his head into her shoulder. 

Peter knows there’s something between them, he feels it in his bones, but in this moment none of it seems to matter. It’s not hug full of teenage passion and awkward emotions. It’s just two shattered seventeen year olds, clinging to each other for comfort. It’s childish, and silly, and all they want right now. 

MJ twirls one of Peter’s braids. “You’re hair’s gonna be all poofy in the morning.” She says with a laugh.

Peter giggles through a tear ruined throat. “What time is it?”

MJ pull away and grabs her phone off her bedside table. “3:30 A.M.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep.” Peter admits.

“Wanna watch the sunrise?” MJ suggests, only half joking.

Peter scrubs at his eyes, and smiles softly. “Sure.”

They fall asleep before morning. Peter doesn’t dream at MJ's house again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo, I'm done with finals! (Aced all my classes!) I know y'all are rabid iron dad fans, but here's a spideychelle offering that I hope you guys enjoyed :)
> 
> Probably gonna do a Ned chapter at some point, but I'm not rlly sure what I wanna do next tbh. I might put a pause on this and work on some more whump one shots.
> 
> (FYI, I know the context of the song I used for the chapter titles lol, but I'm waaaay manipulating it for my own use)
> 
> comments are always appreciated!!!! thanks for reading!!!
> 
> ~Cereal


	15. I Could Stay Right Here, Or Disappear

Peter keeps going to the bathroom when he doesn't have a reason to. He'll excuse himself when thinking becomes too much and dart off to a quiet enclosed stall. Sometimes he'll just stare at himself in the mirror. Maybe it's to remind himself that he's real. Maybe it's to take a break from the outside world. Maybe he just doesn't know why he keeps doing it. 

It seems vain, seems silly. He passes over his reflection, looking for imperfections. He puts mirrors together all the time now. Sets them at angles so they reflect back and back, to the green tinted state he thought was another dimension when he was little. The same face staring back at him hundreds of times, multiplied and multiplied the further back he looks. 

_How many did you see?_

_14 million_. 

Most times its at night, when he's itching to do something; help someone, topple from a height and only just not hit the ground. Instead he'll study his reflection and look for the gap in reality. Tapping on his face, tapping on the mirror. He remembers a funny vine and giggles to himself. 

He lies on the floor until his back cracks like _Rice Krispies_. He does crunches for no reason at all. He wonders how much force it would take for him to tear out the towel bar. 

He stares up at the water stains and mold on the ceiling that never gets cleaned. He throws out his toothbrush and breaks open a new one. He takes a few hits of his old asthma medication until his hands shake from the overdose, but his metabolism sweeps away the feeling in a second.

He sorts through his toiletries. He tosses out decade old spa soaps that came free in the mail. He smells every bottle of shampoo they have and feels dizzy. 

He sits cross legged on the toilet seat and flops forward to let the blood rush to his head. He lays in the empty tub, and imagines what it must feel like to be sitting in ice with your kidney gone. He sings the new _Panic! At The Disco_ album to himself.

Peter doesn't know why he can't do this in his room. He could just as easily stretch his legs in the kitchen. There's a fire escape he could crawl out to in minutes. He doesn't understand why he lingers in the dingy bathroom like its an oasis. 

Peter splashes water on his face, and drinks a handful. He doesn't know why, he has a perfectly good glass of water on his bedside table. 

Peter takes a good long look at himself in the mirror. His skin is clear, for once in his life. He runs a hand through his hair, which is soft and curly and smells like strawberry shampoo (he was tired and confused his with May’s). His shirts lays across his chest in a good, strange way. Suddenly having the weight and muscle mass you want is jarring to say the least. But his shirts fit like they're supposed to now. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to it.

So he feels good, he thinks. He's supposed to feel good. The bags under his eyes make him look a little thinner and that's ever the goal, isn't it?

Except the longer he stares, the more imperfections he finds and they weigh in him more than they should. His cheeks are too chubby, he never quite lost the baby fat there. His ears stick out too far from his head. One of his eyes squints more than the other when he smiles. His nose is crooked from breaking.

His eyes are sad. Peter remembers doing this same dance when he was 16, when he was 15, when he was 14. Younger, pudgier, happier. 

Peter shakes his head, flicking overgrown curls into his eyes. “Okay.” He says.

The bathroom door creaks open. Peter hears a thousand things at once: the mingling of a party he doesn't want to be at, the muffled rock music coming from Tonys lab down the hall, the muted sounds of the bodega in early morning. All places he hid. It all falls silent the second he puts his foot on the carpet of his apartment. Its creaks and groans as he tiptoes back to his dusty bedroom.

“Peter?” a familiar voice echoes and reality comes snapping back to him like a punch. May is standing in the hallway, glass of water in hand, eyes tired and disheveled. She's barely awake, even forgot her glasses. Peter could say anything and she wouldn't remember in the morning. Peter could unload his problems.

He curls his toes in the squishy carpet, smiling shyly. “Hi, May.”

“You okay, honey?” She's not awake. She won't remember, he's almost sure. Even if he's not, he should tell her how he's feeling now. Avoid a breakdown later, just _say something--_

“I'm fine.” 

May smiles. She walks to him, stumbling just a little, tipsy on exhaustion. She gives him a brief hug, heartfelt and strong, but he's too sleepy to respond quick enough. She pulls back and kisses his forehead. “G’night, baby…” She whispers, before weaving back to her own bedroom.

Peter can't explain why the sound of the door clicking shut makes him feel so lost. 

He lingers in the hallway for too long, pacing and displaying just about every nervous tick he has.

He can't justify crawling into her room like a little kid at seventeen years old, but something visceral in him just wants his aunt more than anything right now. The childlike need claws at his gut until he feels absolutely sick.

Peter feels a wave of shame wash over him as he turns the knob and pushes open the door. 

May's sitting up in her bed already, rubbing at her bleary eyes. “Peter? What's wrong, sweetie?”

Peter doesn't know when he started crying, but he wipes away tears that won't seem to stop coming. “Sorry…” he rasps out. “I don't feel so good, May…”

May clicks her tongue sympathetically. She scoots over to the other side of the king size bed; Uncle Bens side. She pats the one nearer to Peter. “C’mere, hon.”

And that's all it takes for Peter to collapse beside her. His sobs start almost immediately, and May gathers her nephew in her arms, petting his hair.

“Shh… talk to me…”

Peter shrugs and shakes his head and cries and cries. “I don't know... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just don't know…” It's partly true.

Peter cries himself to sleep on what should be his aunts side of the bed. May holds him and wipes his tears and strokes his hair until he mercifully passes out. 

He wakes up in the night again, face hot and puffy, and tired down to his bones. He can see the sun starting to rise just a little through the battered blinds.

But May's still asleep. Scars on her face from the wrinkled sheets, and glasses askew on her nose. Peter can't help the pang of guilt in his chest. He carefully removes her glasses, tucks her in properly, and kisses her on the forehead, before hauling himself up and leaving the dawn dimmed room.

And now he's in the hallway again. An idle spot, an idle time. He could go make breakfast, go back to bed, or just wait out here for the sun to rise. 

Except he's not going to do that. He's not going to wait around for his life to happen. He's not going to wait for things to fix themselves. He's not going to cry in the bathroom anymore, or fall apart in the wee hours of the morning. 

Peter makes breakfast. He burns the pancakes, and spills the orange juice, and forgets to pick out a little piece of shell in the eggs. 

May says it's perfect. 

He feels better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is weeeiird so my bad if it makes less sense than others. All these chapers are based off my own personal experiences, so sometimes things that make sense to me are just lost on others. But that's okay! I hope you enjoy this one either way, amd I hope it isn't too similar to the other May chapter. I havr another Tony chapter that is a few tweaks from being done so that one should be posted soon!
> 
> comments make my day!!! hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> and as always, here's my post IW Playlist, including many of the songs that I used to write this fic (new songs are added all the time so keep checking if you enjoy it!): https://open.spotify.com/user/29ycp435qislkbuh44f4yxuhx/playlist/4x6DcWqW47RLq6yNpI3tWv?si=MejRqEz8RWqCyZWzBajtIg
> 
> ~Cereal


	16. What I Tell You In The Evening (Pt. 1)

It's three weeks and two days after landing, before Peter and Tony have a normal conversation again. 

There are bits and pieces in between. Peter swings by the Tower sometimes, watching Tony carry off the last of the boxes with a defeated expression. He locks eyes with Peter once, but says nothing. 

Tony will text him every now and then. Small things, just a word or two.

_You okay, kid?_

_How are you doing?_

_Are you safe?_

Peter always responds with a ‘yes’ or a ‘yeah’ or an ‘im fine’, and then they both go dark for another few days.

But the time comes when Peter has to face the music, and meet with Tony again face to face. He just wishes it didn't have to be with a broken wrist and a mangled suit. 

Peter cradles his bad arm against his chest, clutching his flickering mask in the other. There's a tear in the leg and the torso, the fabric frayed and circuits sparking. His eye is blackening from a well placed punch. 

“Uhm… ‘scuse me, FRIDAY?”

The Compound makes a weird little chime noise, and FRIDAYS soft voice emanates from the door. “Hello, Mr. Parker, do you require assistance?”

“Uh, yes please. My suits a little broken, and I can't really fix it myself, so I kinda need Mr. Stark to, uh…” He trails off, kicking a misplaced stone back into the dirt, and hoping FRIDAY gets the message. 

“Mr. Stark isn't currently in the Avengers Compound, would you like me to contact him?”

“No!” Peter shouts. “No, that's okay, don't call him. I'll uh… can I just wait here until he gets back?”

“Certainly.”

“Great.” Peter plops himself down on the porch, feeling like a kid without a house key. He doesn't know where Tony is, or how long he'll be, and sitting down is just making him so tired, so he leans his head back against the door and rests his eyes, for just a minute.

Except one minute turns into two, and the next thing Peter knows, someone's shaking him with desperation. 

“ _...Kid? C’mon, wake up… Jesus Christ…_ ”

Peter shakes himself awake as fast as he can. “What? I'm good, I'm up…”

Peter tugs open his eyes to see Tony looking at him with wide fearful eyes. The sky is dark now, with more stars above Peter’s head than he can see in the city.

“Oh hey, Mr. Stark, you're back.” Peter says with a sleepy smile.

And that's all it takes for Tony to shift into anger. “Are you shitting me? What, you fall asleep on my porch with multiple injuries after not seeing me for three weeks, and _that's_ what you have to say?!”

Peter scrunches up his face, confused at Tony's anger, and not yet fully awake. “I needed to fix the suit and FRIDAY said--”

“You needed to fix _yourself!_ ” Tony says, gripping Peter’s shoulders. “Why didn't you call me…”

Peter cocks his head a little. “I figured you were busy, I didn't want--”

“If you're hurt, _call me_ , don't pass out on my front steps, I thought-- _Jesus_ …” Tony's standing now, looking genuinely shaken, and Peter doesn't know what to do. 

“I--I'm sorry, Mr. Stark…” He says honestly, pushing himself up.

But that only seems to agitate him more. “Just get inside. I'll get you cleaned up and fix your suit…”

“Okay…” Peter shuffles in, feeling a wave of shame without really understanding why. He's always been this way, even before enhanced senses: he can't seem to filter out the emotions around him. Whatever emotion one person is experiencing, especially negative it seems, Peter absorbs. It's rarely a good thing. 

The compound is eerily quiet, and Peter feels each noisy step vibrate up his spine. He follows Tony in a daze up to the lab, and sits himself down on the workbench. His feet hover just a little above floor and it makes him feel like even more of a kid. 

Tony’s not really paying him much attention, despite looking more shaken than Peter feels.

Peter opens his mouth again, despite his brains best wishes, and tries to make amends again. “Mr. Stark, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--…” Well, he's not exactly sure what he didn't mean to do, because he's done stuff like this before. And sure, he knows in his heart of hearts that it's stupid, but Tony usually brushes off the initial panic with a good ruffle of his hair and one too many ibuprofen. 

This is something new. And Peter doesn't like it at all.

Tony fumbles with a roll of plaster gauze, tossing it to the side of Peter. “That'll immobilize your arm until it's healed…” He throws him an old tshirt, the graphic long washed away. “Here. Take your suit off, I'll fix it.”

Peter swallows nervously, trying to figure out what he did wrong. He pushes the spider in the center of his chest, slips the sparking suit off his shoulders, and pulls on the shirt. “Thank you…” He says meekly, tugging off the rest of the suit and gripping it tightly.

Tony takes it from him with a short nod, tossing it onto the next closest workbench. He takes Peters broken wrist in his hands. 

“It's fine, I can wrap it…” Peter offers, wincing slightly at the sharp pain.

“Can't wrap your own wrist, kid.” Tony states, already doing it for him.

The gauze is soft, and the pressure takes some of the pain away. Peter’s trying harder to notice things like that now. If he notices things, sometimes he won't float away as easy.

Peter keeps his head down while Tony wraps his wrist. He can feel the emotion coming off his mentor in waves. He's not quite sure if it's anger, or disappointment, or who it's directed at, but he doesn't really want to find out.

“All done.” Tony says, void of feeling. “Lemme see your eye.”

Peter shakes his head a little. “It's fine, really, it was already healing…”

“Kid…” Tony warns.

Peter sighs, slowly lifting his head to meet Tony's eyes. 

It's the first time since coming to the compound that Peter’s gotten a good look at him and he looks _awful_. His eyes are bloodshot and weighed down by dark circles. His eyebrows look like they've been in a permanent state of anxiety for 3 decades. His hands are shaking minutely. 

“Have you been sleeping?” Peter asks bluntly, and kicks himself the moment he does.

Tony takes Peter’s face in his hands, tilting it so the fluorescent light shines on his battered eye. “Why, don't think I'm gonna qualify for Miss Universe?”

Peter gives a half hearted quirk of his lips, before flinching as Tony tries to look at his eye.

“Does it hurt?” Tony goes back to rifling through his disorganized supplies.

“It’s not that bad.”

“But it hurts?”

Peter squirms a little. “It’ll heal quickly...”

“No games, kid: _does it hurt?_ ”

“...yeah.”

“ibuprofen.” Tony tosses the bottle square at Peter’s chest, and he catches it with a few fumbles. “There's an ice pack in the mini fridge if you need it.”

“Thank you.” Peter says quietly. He feels a little lost. Tony never just gives him the bottle.

Tony gives a half hearted ‘uh-huh’, turning his full attention to the tattered suit he so carelessly cast to the side a few minutes ago. “Stay if you want, while I fix it.”

“S-sure.” Peter retrieves the ice, pressing it to his aching eye and hissing a little at the cold.

“Towel, kid.”

“Oh, right.” Peter wraps the ice pack in a dishtowel.

The next few minutes pass in silence, save the steady noises of Tony working. But somethings still off. There's no AD/DC blasting Peter’s thoughts away. There's no lively chatter, or Happy coming in every now and then. It feels wrong.

And then Tony snaps. 

Something goes wrong with the suit, and it can't have been that major because nothing's on fire, and Peter’s _seen_ what can happen in Tony's lab. But he curses, loudly, and knocks a few tools off the table.

Peter flinches visibly, thankful that Tony's head is in his hands so he doesn't notice. “Mr. Stark…? I--it's okay, I can do without it for a little while, it's not a big deal, honest--” Peter cuts himself off, trying to stem the flow of nervous ramblings.

“It's fine, Peter… just don't worry about it.” Tony says tiredly.

“Mr. Sta--”

“Go home, okay?” Tony says wearily. The worst part is that it's not angry. “Just, please go home.” 

Peter hears the words unspoken: _I don't want you to see me like this._ “I'm sorry, sir…”

“ _Don't._ “ Tony says with finality, and suddenly it clicks.

“I--” Peter cuts himself off. He doesn’t know what to say. How can he console a grown man about his _own death?_ His death that never happened,

Tony doesn’t move a muscle and Peter feels utterly lost. He feels the frustrating sting of tear in his eyes, and attempts to keep them at bay with a few forceful blinks. It’s not his fault, he knows that, but he can’t help feeling so responsible for everyone else. He’s the reason people he loves are in pain right now, and he can’t twist blame around enough to not have the guilt land squarely on his chest.

He can’t even _apologize_ anymore.

“What are we supposed to do with this?” Peter asks brokenly.

Tony's face is in his hands. “I don't know, kid.”

Peter nods. Because Tony isn't May. Tony isn't Ben, or his parents. Tony's not even really the person Peter thought he was. He's not Iron Man, he's Tony Stark, and those people are very different. 

Tony can't save him from everything.

“I'm gonna go home.” Peter says numbly.

“Okay.”

Peter slings his bag onto his shoulder, feeling sullen and beaten down. “Just… I know you're a person too, Mr. Stark. I'm not dumb. If somethings wrong… and if it's my fault… you can just tell me.”

Peter feels a strange stew of emotion in his stomach. He feels hot like he’s angry, but shaky like he’s anxious, and it’s all he can do not to break into a run and let the tears flow freely.

He's already gone by the time Tony opens his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lololol I've seen infinity war 3 more times on digital and I'm Dying.
> 
> uhhh yea I hope yall like the angst, (I promise I'll fix it, pt. 2 is almost done it'll prob update by the end of the day tbh. or like. 3 minutes from now lmao).
> 
> this chapter (now turned my first two parter!) was at the suggestion of xxx_cat_xxx (idk how to link mb) so I hope this fufills what you wanted! I had a lot of fun writing it, so thank you fir the suggestion! 
> 
> tbh if yall got prompts/anything u wanna see hmu and I might do smth w it, I honestly never know what will inspire me.
> 
> anyway, that's all for now! sorry for the long hiatus (summer work, ugh) but I'm back now! lots of iron dad bits and pieces floating around that I can hopefully work into full fics soon!
> 
> comments make my day!!! hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> and as always, here's my post IW Playlist, including many of the songs that I used to write this fic (new songs are added all the time so keep checking if you enjoy it!): https://open.spotify.com/user/29ycp435qislkbuh44f4yxuhx/playlist/4x6DcWqW47RLq6yNpI3tWv?si=MejRqEz8RWqCyZWzBajtIg
> 
> ~Cereal


	17. By The Morning Won't Make Sense (Pt. 2)

The second time Tony and Peter see each other after landing on Earth, is three weeks after the front porch disaster, and is under somehow worse circumstances.

Peter’s out on patrol, swinging through the city and letting the wind rush past his ears. 

“ _Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!_ ” He sings softly to himself, Karen blasting _Kool & The Gang_ through his mask. “ _Hollywoooood! Hollywood swingin’!_ ” 

He feels content, being back out on patrol. It took a while (even some unexpected cajoling from aunt May), but eventually he found the strength to be Spider-Man again. And it's good for him, he thinks. That's what May said. Good to have a routine back, instead of lying on his bed, waiting for his world to turn again. He's trying to feel better. To be better. 

(But no Iron Spider suit. Not anymore.)

Peter takes a little jaunt past his normal route to the Hall Of Science, and someone's actually trying to _break in_ (and for real? A museum robbery? You couldn't be anymore of a cliche baddie?), so Peter crawls in through the skylight and hopes not to set off security alarms himself.

The robber is… weird looking, to say the least. A big purple cape like he's a goddamn emperor, and something that looks like a fishbowl over where his head should be (but who's to say he even has a head, Peter’s seen weirder things). Peter cranes his neck, but can't for the life of him see a face. 

Peter likes to think of himself as reasonably sneaky. He can put the stealth on when need be. But the fact remains that despite radioactive spider powers, Peter is still an incredibly clumsy kid. So when his foot gets caught in a banner, tears it, and knocks over and entire pop up exhibit, Peter wishes he could be even a little shocked at himself.

To his credit, he doesn't panic because this guy's clearly a nutjob with no real criminal skill, so what's the real harm besides Peter just looking like an idiot?

The harm is a lot, Peter finds out, as he watches the very enclosed room begin to fill up with extremely dense looking gas. Peter crawls back up to the window, finding it locked (from the outside? Is that even possible?) and finally feels the panic start to set in. Distantly, he hears fishbowl guy laugh to himself, not in a villainous way, but more of an ‘I'm-fucking-crazy’ kind of way, which sets Peter _a lot_ more on edge. He thinks he hears the guy start to say something to him, just before he closes the door to leave, but Peter’s brain is already too cloudy to focus.

His grip on the ceiling starts to loosen, and he can't stop himself from falling all the way down to the unforgiving marble floor. 

_"You're too high up, you're running out of air!" Peter can barely hear Tony through the deafening roar of the spaceship._

_"Yeah..." He says, breathless, seconds from passing out. "That makes sense..."_

Peter's body hits the ground with a horrible _thud_. It isn't that he isn't _grateful_ for his spider powers, it's just that things _hurt more._

Actually, he's starting to feel everything more now. His spider sense is blaring in the back of his head, but in a foggy fucked up way. Peter curls on his side and clamps his hands over his ears. The white noise of the museum feels like grating chalkboard and squeaky balloons to him. He squeezes his eyes shut against the light which seems to be getting harsher, despite the dim room.

“ _Shit, what's happening…?_ ” Peter mumbles to himself. Every inch of his body feels like it's covered in sandpaper. He wants to tear his spine out. 

The gas has all but dispersed now, but the effects haven't left him yet, and he doesn't suspect they will soon.

He cries out to Karen, begging her to call Tony, then focuses all his remaining energy on _not passing out._

When Tony finds him, a full _half hour later_ , lying on the ground in the fetal position with his hands over his ears, _sobbing_ , Peter’s wishing more than anything that he had fainted on impact.

~~~

Peter can't hear anything Tony says to him, he just knows that it _hurts._ Everything is too loud and harsh and big and Peter feels like he's drowning. 

Hands grasp his shoulders, and he _knows_ it's Tony but it hurts so bad that he flinches away like he's been burned. “ _Stop, stop, please…_ ”

Tony reaches for him again, pulling him up off the ground, while Peter tries to get his feet under him. He crashes forward into Tony’s chest, gripping the back of his suit in desperation.

_Peter grips Tony’s windbreaker. There is no wind on Titan, only deafening silence._

Peter chokes back a cry. “Mr. S-stark…” 

_“I don't wanna go, I don't wanna go! Mr. Stark, please!” Peter cries into Tony’s shoulder, voice muffled and wavering._

“I don't understand, I don't--” Peter mumbles deliriously, feeling Tony take his weight.

_“I don't know what's happening, I don't know what's happening--”_

“Kid... kid, _settle down_ , I got you…” Tony soothes absently, trying to figure the best method of leaving this place.

_“You're alright…” Tony forces out, and it's such a horrible lie, he almost chokes._

Peter doesn't feel Tony lift him off the ground. He doesn't remember the flight to the compound, or the panicked reassurances whispered in his ear. 

He remembers waking up.

His first instinct is to fight, but the sharp pain in his head forces him back down without any interference from Tony. Peter feels like he's floating again. His brain is fuzzy, his hands don't feel like they belong to him, and his deepest instincts are screaming out from his core that he is very, very _scared._

“ _No…_ ” He whimpers, trying to reign in his rapid breathing. He squeezes his head from both sides with his palms in an attempt to lessen the pain. “ _No, no, no, no, no…_ ”

“Hey, easy, easy…” Peter's hands are tugged gently away from his head. “You're okay kid.”

There are hands in his hair, providing a frantic sort of comfort. 

Peter leans into the touch. “Mr. Stark…?”

“Yeah.”

Peter reaches his hand up, clutching at Tonys sleeve. The cuff buttons dig into his palm, but it grounds him.

Tony rubs Peters head a little. “Take it easy…” 

Peter groans, the pounding in his head not letting up. His spider sense is duller now, but still putting him on a constant edge, making panicked tears well in his eyes.

“It's alright. You're alright.” Tony means it this time.

Peter tangles his fingers in the cotton blanket hastily draped over him. He can't decide on what to ask first so he just says: “I don't remember anything.”

“Didn't think so,” Tony says, with the tiniest condescending edge, pouring glass of something. “And you passed out on my couch. Sounds like something I would do.”

Peter can't even find it in himself to scoff at Tony’s joke. He's too exhausted.

“Here, bottoms up.” 

Peter peels his eyes open, squirting at the harsh light, and blindly reaches for whatever Tony has for him. His hands wrap around something light, plastic, and definitely not a regular glass. “Is this a freakin’ _sippy cup?!_ ” Peter asks incredulously, voice still wrecked from crying.

“Oh, his brains still there.” Tony says casually. “Yes it's a sippy cup, you little brat. Spider-Kids with super migraines don't lift their heads up to stay hydrated.”

Peter actually feels remarkably touched by that. He takes a sip from the neon green straw, not hating that he doesn't have to move. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he squints at the thick plastic, trying to act normal. “You couldn't have at least sprung for something not _Barney The Dinosaur_ themed?”

“ _No._ ” Tony rolls his eyes. “It was lying around, gimme a break, kid…” 

Peter studies the cup. “It looks brand new.”

“What, are you Sherlock Holmes? Drink the damn water.”

Peter obediently takes another sip, before groaning and setting it down. “Ugh… shit, I'm gonna be sick…” 

“No, you're not.” Tony says cooly. “Breathe through it, you gotta keep the water down.”

Peter inhales shakily through his nose, keeping his mouth shut tightly. Frantically, he shakes his head, sitting himself up on shaking arms. 

“Whoa, whoa, okay…” Tony holds a trash can under Peters head while he heaves up the sour water.

“S-sorry… sorry, Mr. Stark, I t-tried…”

“Shh…” Tony rubs his back. “Just let it out, you're fine…”

_“Over the bucket, kid…” Tony instructs gently, watching Peter heave out stringy stomach acid._

_"Fuck McDonalds..."_

“Maybe we should try Pedialyte, huh?” Tony says, more to himself, then situates Peter against the back of the couch once the retching tapers off.

Peter wrinkles his nose. “Isn't that for sick kids?”

“You _are_ a sick kid.” 

Peter scoffs lightly. “How come you don't have Gatorade, though?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “'Cause I _don't_. Why is everything the Spanish Inquisition with you, huh?”

Peter shrugs “Curious personality?”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Tony mumbles under his breath.

“Mr. Stark, why do you have so much kid stuff?”

“Oh haven't you heard?” Tony says distractedly, rifling through the fridge contents. “I've got a little gremlin intern roaming my halls, and eating me out of house and home.”

Peter laughs softly. “But this is like… _little_ kid stuff. Like… _baby_ stuff-- _oh my god!_ ”

Tony knows he's caught, standing completely off guard with a bottle of fruit punch pedialyte in his hand, the fridge beeping incessantly to remind him it's still open. “Shit.”

But Peter, despite looking downright awful, is grinning. “Congratulations, Mr. Stark!”

Tony relaxes a little bit. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Were you gonna tell me?”

Tony laughs a little, passing Peter the bottle. “I think your fancy little spider senses would've picked up on an infant around here eventually, kid. ”

“Well, no, I just meant-- uh…” Peter hunches in on himself. “Sorry, that's weird, I shouldn't have expected-- _is_ that weird?”

Tony smiles. “It's not weird, kid. I was going to tell you before, I just…”

 _Before_. Peter clicks together what Tony's talking about and he cringes. “Shit. I really screwed that up, didn't I?”

“ _No_. No, it was my fault. I was going through a thing, and I took it out on you and that was wrong.”

Peter wrings his hands nervously. “I still should've been more careful, I wasn't even thinking about how you felt, I was so wrapped up in myself--”

“ _Good_. You should be focusing on yourself. You need time, kid, I get it. But you don't have to be afraid of coming to me until you're physically hurt, okay? There's other kinds of hurt. And I don't mind if you just wanna drop by for lunch, either. Doing something normal would be good for us.”

Peter hates the sting of tears that Tony's simple words bring to his eyes. They're direct and to the point, but they mean _everything_ to him.

Tony sighs deeply, dropping down beside Peter on the couch.

_Tony sighs deeply, dropping down in his now designated spot beside Peter._

_"It's okay, you're safe. Your brains just messing up its signals."_

“Look, you deserve to know why I acted that way. Pepper told me the news two days before you passed out on my porch, and I was already freaking out.” Tony passes a hand down his face, clearly uncomfortable with all the emotion flying around, but plows on anyway. “You're the only kid I've ever been responsible for, and I have fucked up in so many ways, that thinking about actually _fathering a child_ terrifies me. I want them to be safe, and thinking about how much this kid could be reckless and stupid like me… it freaked me out. So I panicked-- I _was_ panicking-- and then you show up, covered in blood, and it's the first time I've seen you since the ship, and I just…” 

Peter sits, stunned. His stomach throbs with dull nausea. His head is spinning wildly. His _hands_ , he still can barely feel his hands and his grip on the Pedialyte bottle is starting to loosen. 

He leans forward, wrapping his arms clumsily around Tony's shoulders. “I'm sorry, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony hesitates, but leans into the hug. His voice his rough with emotion. “It's not your fault.” He pauses. “It's not anyone's.” 

Peter nods. He buries his nose in the polyester of Tony's suit. “You're gonna be a good dad.” He says, in a small, sincere voice.

Tony palms the back of his head. “Thanks, kid.”

Peter pulls away, a watery smile on his face. “Okay, but step one is getting _something_ other than _Barney_ themed sippy cups. You're Iron Man, your kid should get Iron Man sippy cups.”

Tony laughs. “I think I'll put that on your birthday list instead.”

Peter laughs, flopping back into his makeshift bed.

_His bed is abandoned, a pile of discarded blankets and receding pain. Already a memory. Already collecting dust._

“Sounds good, Mr. Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhh I spent a long long time rewriting this ending (why I didnt post for so long tbh) so I hope it's alright. Tryna go for that iron dad comfort we all crave, yk?
> 
> im sorry, I hope this makes sense, I put a lot of flashabacks in italics and I just hope it reads alright (its unbeated but I read it like. 2000 times so ://)
> 
> anyway, like I said, if youve got a suggestion, don't be shy! I really don't know where this fic is going, it's just kinda when I have an idea. 
> 
> comments make my day!!! hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> and as always, here's my post IW Playlist, including many of the songs that I used to write this fic (new songs are added all the time so keep checking if you enjoy it!): https://open.spotify.com/user/29ycp435qislkbuh44f4yxuhx/playlist/4x6DcWqW47RLq6yNpI3tWv?si=MejRqEz8RWqCyZWzBajtIg
> 
> ~Cereal

**Author's Note:**

> work and chapter titles from _Tomorrow_ by Daughter, _In Our Bedroom After The War_ by Stars, _Lua_ by Bright Eyes, _I Found_ by Amber Run, _To Build A Home_ by The Cinematic Orchestra, _Forest Fire_ by Brighton, _Youth_ by Daughter _Goner_ by Twenty One Pilots, _Bridge Over Troubled Water_ by Simon and Garfunkel, _So Big/So Small_ from Dear Evan Hansen, _Seventeen_ from Heathers, and _Michael In The Bathroom_ from Be More Chill.
> 
> chapters are technically unrelated, and can be read as seperate stories, but I only felt like uploading one collective fic, and they all kind of go together anyway.
> 
> want to cry with me? here's my post IW playlist, including most of the above songs listed, and many others I used to create this story (I'm adding new songs all the time, so keep checking if you enjoy what you've heard! I also try to post the link at the end of every chapter when I remember) https://open.spotify.com/user/29ycp435qislkbuh44f4yxuhx/playlist/4x6DcWqW47RLq6yNpI3tWv?si=MejRqEz8RWqCyZWzBajtIg
> 
> like my work? follow my marvel blog @lesbian-spiderman, I post some whumpy peter fics there sometimes :)
> 
> comments are always appreciated!!!


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